From Cinders and Ashes
by silmelinde
Summary: Young James wants to escape his stepfather's control, but it's not easy when the later holds his fortune and power of the East Trading Company. Can the arrival of Captain Jack Sparrow tip the odds in his favour? An adaptation of Cinderella story.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own them, either PotC or fairy tales.

Greetings fellow readers,

I'm sorry, I couldn't resist the temptation, although I have two other stories pending. This idea has been drifting around my mind for a while, thus I had to succumb and let it out. I hope it will be an adventure worth following.

This story is AU.

* * *

**Prologue**

Once upon a time, in a land where the azure sea plays with the golden sand shore and the bushy, red corals whisper tales about distant ships, sailing into the far horizon, lived a nobleman, Admiral Lawrence Norrington. He was a brave man who sought to establish order at sea and peaceful passage for honest men who sailed oceans wide. But, not matter how far away duty led him, the Admiral's heart belonged to his beautiful wife and his young son, James. They were a loving and devoted family who took joy in every moment they shared.

Sadly, as fate would have it, their happiness didn't last. Enemy forces grew weary of the successful campaigns led by the Admiral that reduced their numbers too often. They gathered in the depth of the night, waiting for the opportune moment. The Admiral's ship fell into cleverly made ambush on the day he was returning home for his son's fourth birthday. His crew fought valiantly, but the odds were unsurpassable. Admiral Norrington fell in battle amidst blood and fire.

Long grieved Eleanor for her lost husband. Upon his passing, she poured all her love and care into raising her only son. But, no matter how attentive she was, the fair woman questioned whether she could provide her son with a proper guidance only a man could give. It was amidst these dreary doubts that four years following Lawrence's death, a new man entered her home. Recent widower with two sons, Cutler Beckett was a respected man of powerful connections and a preceding reputation.

"Madam," he spoke, bowing down with false modesty. "I have great respect for your sorrow. I do understand the depth of the wounds inflicted by beloved's untimely passing. However, admittedly out of my affection for you, I must urge us both to take into consideration what our children lack. On my part, I will never replace your son's father, but I am growing to be an influential man who has ties with a seafaring company. I can provide young James with true gentlemanly guidance and an enviable career. I will care for him like I will for my sons. In return, I merely beg for your hand in marriage and if not love then perhaps some affection and loyalty."

"I am grateful for your offer," she answered. "Please allow me the time to decide."

Three days and three sleepless nights Eleanor pondered. On the brink of the fourth her answer was ready, although her heart cried with ill premonition. She would give her hand to another for her son's benefit, but would keep her heart for she knew it would never belong to anyone except Lawrence.

The union was forged in late autumn. Cutler Beckett was not a tender father or husband, but he kept true to his word. James was enrolled into the best military school paid for generously to ensure best instructors and their attention. The newly made Lord indulged his wife and placed few demands upon her, seemingly out of respect for her feelings. Life looked brighter a bit. With many obligations lifted, Eleanor was free to find joy in caring for her family and watching her son grow.

The good days were cut short as once more fortune turned away from this noble family. Eleanor fell ill barely a month after the union. No highly paid doctors summoned by Lord Beckett could find what caused the illness, while she waned like a wax candle. The fair woman passed away within days to a place where her soul at last joined her husband's, convinced that she left her son in good hands. She never learned that there was no room for her son in Lord Beckett's stone heart. All he ever wanted from her was the noble title.

His attitude changed abruptly as soon as James' mother was gone. Lord Beckett isolated his stepson from anyone who cared for him and stripped away all his privileges. James was thrown at the mercy of Beckett's sadistic sons and their whims. All the dirtiest chores too difficult even for an adult were given to the young child who was daily punished without causing slightest offence. Lord Beckett sought to embitter and harden his soul. He hated that James far exceeded his lazy sons in intelligence, skill and strength of character. He was not satisfied until the child was turned into lowliest servant in his own home. But, no matter how badly the stepfather abused him, James remained as kind as his mother and free of fear just like his father.

Years passed, winters turned to summers, until the day of James' eighteenth birthday. This is where our story begins.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi everyone,

Thanks very much for your reviews. I'm glad this idea gathered some interest. Have a wonderful Christmas weekend and enjoy the next chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

A cat, fluffy as a grey raincloud, sniffed a tolerably clean floor. His whiskers trembled in discontent as he navigated around small patches of wetness, refusing to abandon the mission to reach a cell at the very end of the hall. Sparse prison bars too narrow for people, were as good as widely open gates for a cat as he slipped between them towards a pile of rags in the corner, which he then pawned. Eliciting no response, the cat jumped on top of them and released a small, demanding meow and then nuzzled the mass below until a hand appeared to nudge him away gently.

"I suppose a good morning to you too, Smoke," came a voice roughened by damp, cool air. The pile of rags shifted and revealed long, skinny limbs belonging to a young man. "If only you knew what a wonderful dream you've interrupted."

The cat released an uncompromising mewl and butted his head against James' arm, demanding to be petted. The young man scratched him behind the ears and then got up, minding the low ceiling. He felt around for the key to unlock the cell which he locked last night. Creaking hinges were not the best orchestra to rest under even if he slept like a rock in the most uncomfortable accommodations after two full shifts every day. Another reason was safety. Since Lord Beckett hardly approved of his existence, it was a dead invitation to the lowest crew members who had too much aggression on their hands to take it out on him without repercussions. It was best not to tempt them.

The cat led the way with a proudly lifted tail as James followed him out of the cell, talking. "I know you're telling me to get up before I get into trouble. Still, I feel a lack of compassion. I suppose it's not easy for the one who gets twenty hours of sleep daily to understand the one who gets the remaining four. I was dreaming that I was a Commodore. I stood on the captain's deck, commanding the best ship in the fleet with a beautiful woman by my side. She regarded me with such passion that I leaned in to kiss her. And before our lips touched, she meowed," James finished with an accusing glance at his furry friend.

They finally left the cells behind and James stretched his numbed limbs just as delicious scent of food assaulted his senses. The cat knew this too well, thus the reason he remained unaffected by James' complaints. Waking up in the morning also meant breakfast. With a swish of a bushy tail, the loyal companion until food was concerned, lurked into a nearby crack that led towards the area where the crew members received their meals, in search of the sustenance. Receiving breakfast didn't apply to James who had to have his stepfather's personal permission, which usually meant he ate the leftovers off his family table. He wished very much he could eat with the crew, though sometimes it was dangerous. As an echo of his thoughts, his way got blocked by a sailor who deliberately took up the entire space with his wide frame.

"Oho!" he exclaimed mockingly. "What have we here, lurking like a thief? Why are you near the mess quarters, Cinders? Don't you have some dirt to clean?"

"I do," said James laconically, trying to take a different route around the quarrelsome shipmate. "If you'll excuse me."

"I don't think I should," the man exclaimed. He took three wide steps to catch up to James and grabbed his elbow. "Me thinks, I should take you to a commanding officer. He should know you were skulking about, trying to steal food from your shipmates. Either that or I'll punish you now."

James tensed, debating whether to fight or accept the beating, well aware that either way he'll be sentenced as the guilty party. Brown was a man of a disagreeable reputation. He was broad and strong, often picking fights, which is why he was still a crewman in his early thirties. However, in the middle of the carnage, as Lord Beckett put it, the man was indispensable.

"Problem, crewmen Brown and Norrington?" a loud voice cut between them like lightening and the man released James like he was shot, having dealt with this voice before and coming out a loser for it.

"Not at all midshipman Groves," said Brown. "I was just about to report that Norrington here was slinking off duty instead of working."

"And you've done an excellent job," Groves cut him off. "You may return to your breakfast or work, whichever you're currently missing."

The crewman obeyed reluctantly. Though still a midshipman, Groves came from a respectable family and unlike him had an exemplary serving record. Not that he needed those facts as protection from predators. The seventeen year old owned sharp knees and elbows in addition to above average sword skills, which he didn't hesitate to use. Brown was pacified somewhat when he heard the midshipman sneer.

"As for you, Cinders, there's a date with a scrubbing brush waiting for you. We'll be entering port soon, so Lord Beckett wants the deck sparkling clear. You'll get whip lashes for every spot you miss."

Brown grinned, satisfied that others hated Cinders too and slinked off to bully some younger crewman for another portion of rations.

"How are you really?" Groves inquired quietly once they were left alone. In response James' stomach growled much to his embarrassment. Theodore chuckled and pressed a loaf of bread into his hand.

"You shouldn't," James muttered, though he was deeply grateful, not to mention starving. He seemed to be in perpetual state of hunger ever since he began to grow taller and taller. "It's not like your daily rations are a feast."

"Lord Beckett calls it a smart nutrition management," Groves snorted. "But, it's all relative. If you can make it several days without a food, then my rations are a daily feast. And doesn't that make me grateful every morning to have some sloppy goo to fill my stomach."

"Umm, thank you for keeping me alive," said James, looking at his empty hand in puzzlement. He wolfed down the loaf without noticing, so not even a crumb was left.

"It's no problem at all," said Groves. "Besides, this could be my devious plan to get into power once something changes. I've overheard some officers talking. I know who the ship truly belongs to."

James squeezed his arm hard to prevent his friend from saying anything foolish and quickly made remaining several steps on top of the deck. The pair squinted in the bright morning sun in contrast with the hull's twilight, which is why they nearly got bowled over by a quick eight year old, a redheaded offspring of Lieutenant-Commander Gillette. Everyone on Beckett's ship had to be useful. Thus, the boy whenever convenient was used for errands to keep him out of trouble.

"Mr Norrington, Mr Norrington!" he exclaimed. "Lord Beckett wants to see you at once in his cabin! He said imme…immi…immeadiately!"

"Oy, breathe air between the words," said Groves, gracelessly recovering his balance and dignity from the assault.

Phillip took a deep breath and started over. "Lord Beckett said you have to come at once! It's very important!"

"All right, all right, thank you very much Mr Gillette for notifying me so promptly. I appreciate your quick work," James said to the boy who smiled at being praised, thinking that he had to get to Beckett before sunset. "I'm sure you can give full report to midshipman Groves." With that he ran off, leaving miffed Groves behind to deal with the child.

Groves of course was mostly pretending. He rather enjoyed bantering with the younger boy and poking fun of him too, to which James warned him that Phillip won't be his creditor on this front for too long. He was clever and picked up everything he observed, and once a bit older would be able to annoy Groves just as much the other did him, which James thought Groves counted on. Overall, James was grateful that he still had someone he could call a friend, no matter how much his stepfather tried to rob him of all support from the world.

His pleasant thoughts, however, quickly vanished replaced by anxiety. James never knew what to expect every time he stood on the other end of the door that led to his stepfather's quarters. Taking a deep breath, he knocked, almost at once receiving permission to enter. James took one step in and stood with his back to the closed door. His stepfather knew how to set up a position of power even in simple routine like enjoying breakfast at the elaborately set up table and drinking tea from cups made of finest china. He sat at the table with his sons Edmund and Edward, flanking him left and right.

"James, how good of you to join us," he said like it was a good friend of his dropping in for a casual visit.

"Good morning," James greeted everyone. Much to his disappointment, Beckett raised a hand, gesturing for him to approach the table. James obeyed wearily. As soon as he faced his stepfather, a cane came crushing down below his kneecap. The behind blow forced James onto his knees. "How many times do I have to tell you, I hate it when you look down on me," Edward hissed into his ear.

"I want him to pour me another cup of tea. I can't have him crawling on the floor to do it," Beckett reproached, confiscating his cane from his offspring with one elegant twist.

James got up, feeling Edward's prickly glare on his back.

"We'll be entering Port Royal in under two hours. There's a matter I wish to discuss before we do."

"With him too?" said Edward with a derisive nod at James.

"Naturally," Beckett cut off his outspoken son. "We have high stakes business there. The best behavior from you three is mandatory."

"You may count on us, father," Edmund cut in. "I, for one, am most pleased to be soon off this rocking piece of wood. I intend to come ashore as soon as we reach the port, even if it's not England. James should accompany me to town. He can run after the horse and carry my belongings."

You mean you want me to drag your drunk self back to the residence once you're as good as a pig, James thought. Lucky for him, Beckett had other plans.

"You will do no such thing," he said in a tone that bore no contradiction. "I will not risk you embarrass us. We will make an entrance together, fitting for our noble family, to be presented to the local society and their Governor. His name is Weatherby Swann." Beckett pronounced the name with a hint of distaste, suggesting some unpleasant history.

Edmund made a sour face. "This Port isn't such a big deal. Why must we impress a bunch of locals who have turned half savage by now?"

"My dear imbecile, look not at what the place is but who comes there. And a Duke of Yorkshire chose Port Royal. He has business of a sort with a Governor; something about them being friends."

Beckett's tone belayed that he saw no need for someone as powerful as a Duke to be friends with a lowly Governor, but the rich and powerful were entitled to having whims.

"What does it have to do with us?" asked Edward, purposely knocking down his cup to force James to clean up the sticky liquid. The name, however, made an impression on those present. Duke of Yorkshire was an influential man close to the Crown who was taking an increasing interest in the Caribbean military and investments, much like the East India Trading Company.

"Everything. This is why many influential families in the vicinity will be arriving within a few days. The port will be very crowded. Duke's only daughter and heiress, accompanying him, turned sixteen - meaning, old enough to marry. I'm counting that after eighteen useless years of your lives, one of you may finally become useful to me."

"Is she pretty?" asked Edmund and shriveled under Beckett's icy glare.

"I don't care if she is the ugliest woman the earth would bear. I'll expect you to get into bed and do your husband's obligations on the wedding night. However, yes, I hear she is the most beautiful woman you'll set your eyes on.

"A wife is not for love. She is for political connections," Edward piped in. "Get some whores if you want tenderness."

Beckett raised his hand, ending the discussion. His eyes arrested James where he stood. "As for you, now that you understand the importance of my plans, you will stay out of sight. There will be no speaking to the locals, no travelling around the island, no entering the town without my explicit permission. You're confined to the ship or our residence where you will be a personal servant to my sons until they succeed in wooing the dame. They must lack nothing."

A cane tip raised James' chin until his eyes met grey, relentless stare. "I especially don't want to deal with the embarrassment of any misguided attempts at running away. Any lenient approach to these rules will result in a dreadful punishment, even death. I hope I am clear."

"Yes, Sir," James responded through the hard tip pressed into his jaw.

"Good." Beckett slowly withdrew the cane to release James. "Report to Lieutenant-Commander Gillette until we reach port. I'm sure he has something for you to do."

With that, he turned away, letting James know he's dismissed.


	3. Chapter 3

Happy New Year! =D

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"No! No! And No!"

A statuette worth at least a yearly salary of an outstanding shoemaker flew out the window through the velvet curtains where it smashed into pieces against a palm tree, scattering fluttering pack of humming birds. "An expedition to the island's mountain through the jungle that crawls with poisonous creatures and twisted lianas prepared to strangle all travelers is not an acceptable gift to a young lady!"

Baron Frontenac, a man of forty two years and an owner of lavish red sideburns wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, bestowing self-congratulations on dodging the projectile. "But Sir," he exclaimed, relocating to a safer corner of the room away from his irate superior, "When you asked me to find out inconspicuously what gift your daughter wants, this is the answer I got."

"I hoped for something reasonable such as a diamond necklace or at worst end a sword," the duke exclaimed, smashing his fist on the table.

"Hoped but hadn't expected," said the baron, hardly doing himself a favour, but relatively safe given scarce availability of the throwing objects because the servants were in the unpacking process.

"Nevertheless, there has got to be limit to these whims!"

Tall mirror reflected the duke's lean figure pacing past for a hundredth time. He was energetic man who reached second half of his life without losing much stamina or handsomeness. Only few silver streaks in his dark, chestnut hair added wisdom and nobility to his open face.

"The Count of Silverstone married his fifteen year old daughter last spring."

"He did," the baron agreed since confirmation only was required in between passionate exclamations.

"And his niece, seventeen, married last winter."

"What a fine match it was."

"All sensible young ladies cannot imagine a better place than London to fulfill their romantic dreams about a fair prince. Finest, noblest and wealthiest men frequent all social events there."

"Undeniably so," the baron yawn and pulled out a monocle from his breast pocket, which he expertly rolled back and forth across his knuckles, a thirty year habit acquired at court out of boredom.

"And what does my daughter say? My dearest father, I love you so that I'll cry every day you're gone. Please take me to the Caribbean with you."

"You could have said no," the baron inserted unhelpfully. This was the reason why the duke who couldn't stand flatterers had him as close confidant, not that he always listened to sound advice.

"She got what she wanted," he said irritably, "a trip to the part of the world where she's sure to meet pirates and poisonous frogs."

"It's not that fair princes never travel these waters, Your Excellency," the baron made an idle stab at comfort without expecting a response. However, the duke took sudden interest in the thought.

"You think so?"

Frontenac caught faltered monocle as Yorkshire was struck by a new idea the baron sensibly feared.

"Perhaps, my daughter was simply bored, seeing the same faces everyday. We can broaden her horizons, introduce new men to her."

"Or we could leave her alone," the baron inserted urgently.

"Governor Swann can help us! He can recommend reputable families!" Inspired by a vision, the duke spread his arms wide, nearly knocking over a candleholder and catching it before it fell. "We have a perfect excuse to arrange a ball! The governor can organize one in honour of our arrival. My daughter won't suspect a thing!"

"I wouldn't discount her natural ability to see through all our plans on this front," said the baron.

However, stopping the candleholder waved in the air with flailing excitement was impossible as Yorkshire was pulled into fantasy. "I can see it now," he dreamed, encompassing the room with his arm outstretched wide, "the dimmed lights, dancing pairs, romantic music and every man between the ages sixteen and thirty five present. There has got to be at least one she'll take interest in! Won't she?"

The later seemed like a direct question to which the baron deemed safe to respond in the positive since the duke acquired a new throwing object.

"Excellent!" said Yorkshire, his mood significantly uplifted. "You will notify the Governor and organize the ball by the end of the week. No! Better yet, by Sunday!"

"Me? Really, I couldn't! I don't deserve the honour of organizing such a special event!" the baron exclaimed, sensing near danger of living without any sleep to make all necessary preparations at such short call, considering it would normally take a week just to issue all invitations.

"Yes you! I trust no other than my oldest friend!" The duke crossed the room in one fluent motion and slid the candleholder underneath Frontenac's chin like a sword, which had the baron imagine most unpleasant repercussions for failing. "And please see to it that every eligible bachelor is there," Yorkshire enforced loudly enough to make baron's ears ring for the rest of the week.

That was an undisputable command that had Frontenac swallow thickly and put away the monocle into his pocket. "Yes, Your Excellency," he complied in doomed resignation.

Deep in thought, the baron adjourned to the balcony to make plans. The residence occupied by the duke stood on the hill overlooking the town. In the streaming rays of sunshine he saw a new ship at the doc, which meant more work for him to ensure any noble passengers were included in the invitation. After all, the baron considered ironically, it could be the ship that brought future soul mate of Beatrice Yorkshire.

* * *

Although lacking European refinement, Port Royal was a magnificent place. The town spread its wings deep into the jungle and hugged sandy shore in the multitude of buildings, crowned by a proud fort with its turrets rising to uphold the sapphire sky. No doubt with history of upheaval and struggle, it stood undefeated, basking in the rays of sunlight and current peace.

James caught himself staring at the surrounding beauty. He lowered his head and pretended that unloading a box to the shore that most likely contained a marble statue of a life-size mammoth or Edmund's shoe collection was the most important task in the world.

Fortunately, Lord Beckett already made a grandiose entrance with all due fanfares by having his ship take over honorary place at the doc and rolled away in the carriage to talk politics with everyone he deemed important. Lieutenant-Commander Gillette, in contrast, was lenient whenever his employer was away. He avoided assigning punishments in the past, having caught the charge resting instead of working on the days James collapsed somewhere in the corner due to exhaustion. Not that he missed what everyone under his command was doing. Gillette appeared conveniently when James looked appropriately busy.

"Would you care to relinquish the box into ownership of these three gentlemen, Mr Norrington and come with me?" he addressed James with a nod at three sturdy sailors who looked better suited for unloading endless boxes that belonged to their employer.

James gladly passed on the bulky object, turning at attention to his superior. Gillette's brown eyes normally sparkling with good humour held elusive unease whenever he regarded Beckett's stepson closely, though James sensed that this deeply rooted discontent had nothing with his actions.

"You must run an errand," Gillette stated, handing a yellow envelope to James. "Find the dock master, Mr Crawford, I am told. He should be at the warehouse on the west side of the beach. You cannot miss that contraption. The envelope should be given to him directly."

James complied with gratitude warm in his chest. Running an errand, which Gillette did not specify to be urgent, was a far easier task than unloading cargo on an empty stomach. Nor would he be criticized for doing it too slowly no matter how fast he tried to perform the task. Maybe he was too desperate for kindness, maybe Lieutenant-Commander was simply reasonable in not working the crew to death, but there were subtle gestures invisible to the eyes of others that made living bearable. Like that time they were still in England when James fell asleep on a cold day and found a jacket covering him afterwards. However, the man never said to him a single word outside work, keeping distance from Beckett's stepson.

Regardless, James had never forgotten that Gillette was one of the few people who maintained his post when the ship underwent change of hands. She used to be called the _Guardian Lawrence_. Lord Norrington for heroic service obtained Royal permission to build a ship at his own expense that would belong to his family solely. When Lord Beckett took over, he renamed her into HMS _Endeavour_ and replaced most of the crew. Lieutenant-Commander was the man who once sailed with Lawrence Norrington. For this and kindness shown towards him, James held him in high regard and secretly hoped that one day he'd be able to talk to Gillette about his father. He was desperate to hold onto memories, but he was so young when his father had passed away. Lawrence's features were slowly dissolving in the passage of time, leaving only a dim swirl of emotions James felt whenever the service allowed his father to come home from the voyages.

James was brought out of musings when a lychee hit him over the top of the head and bounced off into the bushes. He barely dodged the next one, jumping several paces back to glare up at his attacker who regarded him from the branches entanglement with a grin. It was a girl about seven or eight years of age with a mass of brown curls and freckles liberally decorating her nose that reminded him of younger Gillette.

"What's the big idea, throwing things at passersby?" he called out to her. "Do your parents know you're doing this?" The girl came from a good family, judging by her well made, even if ruffled, dress. Her parents weren't likely to approve of this un-lady like behaviour.

The girl seemed entirely untroubled by the question. She climbed down from the branches with nimbleness of a monkey and brandished a stick at him. "Give up, you old man!" she commanded confidently. "You're in the custody of the most fearsome pirate, Elizabeth Swann!"

"I'm not old," James protested.

"Are too! You walk like an old man with his nose to the ground who has lots of things to think about and ignores everything around him. That's why I've decided to strike," she claimed, advancing on him until something prickly in the sand sunk into her foot. The girl with a muttered 'ouch' hopped on one foot while rubbing the other.

"All right, all right, I give up," said James, raising his hands up in appeasing manner. By the looks of things she hadn't the foggiest where she lost her shoes. Surely, she was going to have a hard time walking back home with the ground covered in prickly objects. "As your prisoner, should I give you a ride home on my shoulders?"

The girl narrowed her eyes considering the idea and then nodded rather liking the travelling method. She climbed on top of James' shoulders easily without him having to sit down to help her.

"Where are your shoes anyway?" he asked just to be sure as they got underway with Elizabeth being in her element giving directions. It seemed she had no reservations about telling others what to do.

"I traded them for a treasure map." She left one hand to encircle his neck and dug up from the folds of her dress a tattered map. "See?" she said, waving the dirty rug under James' nose. "He was a real pirate too! He had a greyish beard and sideburns and a round face that was so tanned. He smelled like rum!"

James rolled his eyes. Young ladies' shoes were an expensive rarity. No doubt the scoundrel who made the trade already was far away.

"You have a treasure too!" Elizabeth declared when after one of the twists she accidentally pulled on an unremarkable piece of rope around James' neck with a modest amulet attached to the other end that was well hidden underneath his shirt.

"Careful, it used to be my mother's," said James as she admired the piece, trying all methods to pry it open until declaring with a pout.

"It doesn't open."

"It has a secret lock. Only I know how to open it," said James, trying to leave it at that. The girl, however, bounced up and down on his neck, digging her heels into his ribs.

"Oh, can I see what's inside? Come on, come on, I want to see what's inside!" she demanded with an energy that could have carried an armada from one end of the sea to another.

James sighed. Apparently, she was not going to leave him alone until he opened the locket. He complied, giving up the object for her to examine in awe.

"She's very pretty," Elizabeth declared, studying a picture of a woman that so rarely went into the light for the fear of being discovered and taken away.

"This is my mother."

The girl took that statement unexpectedly seriously and then put the locket back around James' neck. "She's gone, isn't she?" she stated in a manner that suddenly lost all naivety. "Or you wouldn't have her in the picture. My mother is gone too. But, I don't remember her. I have Estrella to take care of me."

"Who is Estrella?" James asked. Speaking about his mother was painful.

Elizabeth pointed her finger straight ahead of them at a brown haired woman in a white apron who ran quite fast towards them, hitching up her skirt to her ankles with an air of fight clinging to her. James removed Elizabeth from his shoulders and took two steps away, deciding that warlike countenance had something to do with the maid valiantly rushing to save her charge from a kidnapper he was mistaken for. Her zest, however, turned into a puzzled frown as Estrella finally caught Elizabeth to discover that the girl was smiling happily at the supposed villain.

"She has misplaced her shoes. I was helping her return home," James explained.

The maid wrinkled her nose at the poorly dressed young man, but decided to behave accordingly to the household she represented. "I'm sorry she troubled you," she told him, taking the girl's hand in a firm hold and half-dragging her away. "I told you not to talk to the dirty strangers," she whispered clearly enough for James to overhear. "He could have been dangerous."

Elizabeth didn't share such reservations. She glanced back at James over her shoulder in the shower of bouncing curls and waved. "Bye, old man!" she shouted at which the governess gave her arm a discontent pull, rushing Elizabeth home before her father noticed their absence.

James resumed his errand smiling; it was rare that someone spoke to him without anger or fear. It seemed that in this corner of the world many forces contended for power where his stepfather's shadow still couldn't reach.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the most daunting sound, incomparable even to war – a soft click of a tea cup set on a gold rimmed saucer. For there were thoughts polished to razor sharp perfection between lifting the cup to take an unhurried sip and setting it down. It was placed on the table when the red brim of the sun disappeared below the horizon.

"I must have been too lenient during the voyage." Lord Becket regarded his stepson in a darkened room with anger lurking beneath the mask of cool calculation. "It appears you have too much freedom for malignant, despicable attempts to ruin our family honour by running errands after I told you explicitly to stay out of sight."

"The errand was confined to the port," James protested, feeling as if each accuser's word smooth as a coil slithered across the room with an aim to wrap around the guilty party's neck and strangle him. "Please do not think…"

"Silence!" As the protest was subdued with a hiss, Beckett glanced down, changing to a deceptively milder tone like the outburst never happened. "Consider yourself lucky no one of importance saw you. Otherwise, I'd have to take the _Endeavour_ out to sea and throw your overboard."

"I'm sorry. I will not make the same mistake again." James made no further effort to defend his actions. Everything he said always became twisted and used against him.

"Not sorry enough," Beckett stated not for a moment fooled that the boy was as subdued as was desirable, but it was enough to humiliate him. "You may begin pious contemplation of your wrongs while preparing the living room for reception by tomorrow. Someone may pay a welcoming visit. Walls, floor and ceiling – I want it all sparkling clean before the furniture is taken in, which too must be spotless. I will check in the morning."

"I understand," said James, preparing to leave. His stepfather's voice caught him by the door in the back.

"Oh, and one more thing," Beckett glanced outside, searching for signs of clouds that would promise rain. "You will sleep in the garden tonight. I trust all the time you've wasted mingling with the local has been beneficial and they told you how to protect yourself from the poisonous spiders. One little bite from some kills a horse."

"I wouldn't inconvenience you such," James promised as Beckett's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I wouldn't mind if you did," he dismissed.

James expected to hear no less; however, the hatred still brought sadness. What prompted his mother to choose this man? It was for her that James wanted to get along with his adoptive family even after she was gone. But, if his stepfather hated him so, why wouldn't he let him go? Though it pained him to leave the remnants of what was left of his parents, James was willing to give up all claims to family fortune in exchange for freedom, for a chance to find human company instead of living with cleaning brushes as his only companions. Yet, it was denied. When James turned fourteen, his family came up with a convenient reason to pull him out of the military school without suspicions. The same night, James ran away. He got as far as the next English port where he attempted to find a ship to escape the country. This is where he found out how efficient Lord Beckett's network could be. He was captured and returned to Bristol in shackles to a cold unwelcome. His family had struck him occasionally, but never had he been tortured before. One of the scars where a scorching poker had been pressed to his shoulder blade still remained. It was the same poker his father used to shift the wood in the fireplace when he came home for Christmas. James remembered his hands. The rest of the memory was a faint image blurred by the dancing flames.

Engulfed by momories, as James worked alone in the house where all but him retired to sleep the rain began to fall. The ground was covered in puddles by the time the living room looked presentable. James stepped outside, taking a deep breath of fresh air before sliding across the wet ground to the nearest bush that looked like a decent cover. Almost-asleep, he curled up underneath the wide leaves, edging away from the patches of wetness and beneath the half-closed eyelids observed lightening flares between the greenery. The dawn was not far away.

He almost drifted into sleep when the plants tilted alarmingly. James tensed and raised his head, recalling the stories about large spiders just to be assaulted by dripping wet ball of fur.

"Silly creature, couldn't you have stayed dry and well fed on the ship," James muttered. The cat ignored the reproach, trembling from thunder, and pressing cold and close to a warmer body. James didn't push him away. He removed his shirt and wrapped it around the feline. Warmed up and dryer, the cat purred, cuddling to his saviour. The vibrations coming from his chest were soothing, lulling James to sleep just as the sky paled with dawn.

"Mr Norrington, Mr Norrington, please wake up!"

A maid, no older than him was leaning over the bushes, calling his name. She was blushing and kept her eyes pointedly down. Regaining the bearings, James realised that he wasn't wearing a shirt. Spotting the crumpled up piece by his leg, James grabbed it and quickly donned it, also avoiding looking at the maid in a bout of shyness.

"The master told me to find you," she was saying meanwhile. "He wants you to clean the foyer floor by dinner."

"Thank you," James told her.

He followed the girl as she went back to the mansion, holding her skirts up high to keep the mud from getting on the prim, ironed dress. He was the only one disallowed to look respectable in the entire household James noted, hopelessly running his hands once to smoothen the shirt that was covered in grey fur and mud. He shivered from wet material sticking to his body. His limbs were stiff from sleeping on the ground. Thus, the perspective of spending half a day hunched on the marble floor was most unappealing.

This is what his stepfather enjoyed the most, seeing him dirty and working on his knees, James considered, gathering water and brushes. The dirtier he was, the less his family tormented him. Even in school before he turned nine, his stepbrother's envy made his life a misery. They had to be more successful, though they never worked hard. James learned to hide any achievements before his family learned about them. Not that Edmund or Edward ever missed a chance to torment him for the fun of it.

As if summoned by thought, as James reached for the bucket to clean the rug, the bucket crashed, kicked down with vicious force. The water went over the rim, hitting him in the face. James brushed it off with a sleeve and glared up through the dripping hair strands at the grinning Edward.

"Hey, what's the idea, wrecking up the racket loud enough to be heard in London?"

James nearly groaned. Edmund was coming down the stairs with his father, his face scrunched up from the noise.

"Who do you think is responsible," Edward shouted back, pointing an accusing finger at James, "leaving around his cleaning buckets and brushes for people to trip over."

Sensing an opportunity for trouble, Edmund hopped down the remaining stairs. The arising squabble, however, was interrupted much to his disappointment by a forceful knock that nearly blew the door off the hinges. "Open up by the order of His Excellency the Duke of Yorkshire!" bellowed a voice, penetrating through the walls.

James dodged a foot stuck out by Edmund and opened the door to a skinny courier, barely reaching James' shoulder in height who presented him with an envelope. "To be delivered to the Master of the mansion, Lord Cutler Beckett, as soon as possible," he declared in mighty voice unfitting for his frame. The courier rushed off quicker than a fox chased by hounds with a massive bag of letters bouncing behind his back.

"Give it to me, you fool!" Edmund shoved James aside, ripping the letter out of his hands in a rush to break the seal. "It's from His Excellency! So soon! We truly are influential!"

"Let me see!" Edward impatiently yanked the parchment out of his brother's grasp, ensuing shouting and fist swinging; each fighting for possession like the Duke's favour depended on who read the letter first.

Beckett unhurriedly reached the squabbling pair and smoothly confiscated the letter from Edward's grasp. "I'll read it," he declared, effectively silencing the fight.

With elbows jammed into each other's ribs, the brothers gathered around him. Beckett waved them to step aside and give him some light to read. "There's going to be a masked ball in honour of His Excellency's arrival," he declared a little miffed that it wasn't for his family personally.

The other family members, however, met the news enthusiastically. "I rather hoped this village will not be so boring," Edward stated.

"I'm sure of it," his father drawled out, examining lines for additional meaning. "The Duke also strongly insists on families bringing their sons the ball. Meaning," he added, seeing his son's confused faces, "he wants his daughter married just as I suspected. It's a chance for the two of you to rise to highest circle in England."

The chance for fame and wealth appealed to their ambitions as both grinned, already imagining themselves in the palace surrounded by luxury and servitude. Beckett ignored them, tapping the letter against the palm of his hand thoughtfully.

"Aren't you going to ask to come along?" he suddenly asked James.

Edward burst into laughing. "Whatever will he do at the ball?" he choked out. "Clean the fireplace?"

"Perhaps he hopes to meet the Duchess!" Edmund exclaimed, howling along with his brother. "I can imagine him saying 'Your Excellency Lady Beatrice, I'm so honoured! May I offer you this scrubbing brush as a gift?'"

"I don't see why not," Beckett stated as his son's faces fell in realisation that he was serious. "We wouldn't want to invoke the Duke's displeasure after he commanded to bring all family members single and suitable of marrying his daughter, at least in age. You do want to go, James, don't' you?"

"Yes." It was useless to lie. James regarded Beckett neutrally, hoping his family wouldn't hear how quickly his heart was beating. When he became old enough to attend social events in London, he had secret plans to contact some of his father's former acquaintances who could potentially offer him a job that would break him out of his family's grasp. Naturally, his stepfather had foreseen it and barred all his attempts at ever entering the society. Perhaps, in Port Royal he was less afraid of it happening, that or he wanted to use him in some way. James didn't care whether his stepfather had another scheme as long as just once he got to attend the event of which everyone spoke so highly. Even Edward and Edmund usually came back in better spirits from such occasions. His suspicions that he'd have to give up a lot were confirmed when his stepfather spoke again.

"Of course, you do need to earn the right to go. Attending the ball not only doesn't free you from duties, but you must run additional errands for my sons and me in order for us to prepare at such short notice. And you may only go, providing that in between these chores you can find something suitable to wear. Woefully, your current look isn't suitable to even attend the stables, much less appearing to the respectable pubic."

"Thank you," James said, already feeling the anger emanating from his stepbrothers bent on suffocating him with unmanageable chores. "I will be ready. I promise."


	5. Chapter 5

Here he is, at your request! XD

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Pale dawn caught a rattling gathering of boards on wooden wheels that supposedly was a cart on the way from the port to the market area. With the driver in a grey hat adorned by a large hole snoozing, it creaked and wobbled along the road, having gathered a legion of meowing cats that stalked it, attracted by a powerful fish odour emanating from the cargo.

As the cart crawled past the change of guard on the fort walls and made a respectable distance from it, the yowling concerto was ceased by a pistol shot, alarming enough to wake up the driver who to this point phlegmatically guided two skinny horses, uncaring to the racket following him. Through the hat-hole, his eyes doubled in size as the sabre tip emerged from the nearest barrow, expanding the shot-though crack until the lid was set loose. It went flying over the rim, underneath the wheels where it scattered the cats.

Glittering in the rainbow spectrum of fish scales that clung to him like a second skin and covered in guts, a man emerged, wrinkling his nose. Deftly, he inserted a slimy fish into the driver's mouth as the later opened it wide to scream. The man shook himself like a dog, bringing into a swirling motion a thick mass of dark braids adorned by coins and beads. He removed the driver's hat and wiped his face with it, returning it with a muttered 'thank you.' The driver nodded and mooed an agreeing sound when the man pressed a finger to his lips as a large stone on the ring decorating his finger glittered dangerously in the light.

Thus assured, the stranger plucked the fish out of the driver's mouth and bit off a small piece. Having sufficiently chewed it, he spat out the raw chunk with a grimace and with a brief salute jumped overboard into the nearest pile of sacks, disappearing from view before the driver could hiccup.

The driver crossed himself twice and spat over right shoulder, continuing on his way, now alert and occasionally throwing suspicious glances back at the remaining barrows. Whereas, the man he encountered comfortably sauntered down the road, heading towards the part of the town both honest and dishonest citizens avoided – the jail.

His behaviour changed drastically from wobbling drunk to sharp as he pressed his back to the wall and peeked around the corner at the two guards by the names of Murtogg and Mullroy posted at the jail's entrance. One of them was standing prim, one hand holding a rifle upright, whereas with the other he was stroking a scanty beard that looked out of place on his thin, youthful face.

"You're telling me that this beard will improve our efficiency as guards?" his companion questioned him irritably.

"It will," the guard reported confidently.

"Do enlighten me!" the other invited without a shadow of belief. His comrade, however, eagerly jumped at the chance to share his brilliant deduction.

"Hypothetically, let's pretend there are infiltrators trying to get into jail with an underhanded intent to free the prisoners," he began, further encouraged by an alert nod. "Any respectable infiltrators will study the guards before making an attempt at breaking in."

"Indeed they will," Mullroy supported the thought.

"What will they see?"

"I presume, given the current location and time, they will see us," said Mullroy.

"Exactly!" said Murtogg. "They will see that we're young. Therefore, they will think we can be fooled easily. Whereas, a serious, perfectly respectable beard ages me and therefore makes me look more experienced. The infiltrators will see the beard, think that the guard is too experienced to fool and will give up on the idea of infiltrating the jail. Therefore, our efficiency as guards will be improved by the beards."

"But, what if they see a beard and refuse to give up?" Mullroy contradicted. "They will be forewarned to be more careful. Whereas, they may lose vigilance if they think we're easy to fool. Therefore, the beard will not help us at all to become better guards."

The other sunk into silence, contemplating how he could defend his opinion. Just as he took a deep breath, a man parted the pair bluntly in an attempt to get past. The guards in spite of being consumed by the argument closed off the gap at once, cutting short the obnoxious attempt. They lined up shoulder to shoulder and pressed their bayonets into intruder's stomach. As he made several steps back, away from the entrance, the duo followed, maintaining the pressure.

"I'm sorry, this isn't the diner," the man said, parting his arms wide like it was the most obvious mistake to make. "I guess I'll be going." The ostensible gesture might have passed him for a casual civilian had it not been for his dubious attire and a pistol tucked into a sash, which prompted the guards into stopping his attempt to get away.

"Just a minute you!" they shouted. "Who do you think you are?"

"Fisher," said the intruder. "John Fisher. I'm here on a secret assignment assigned by the Admiral so secret that knowing his name may get you reassigned to a far worse job. Of course, since you insist," he glanced at the weapons still pointed at him, "I will share my purpose of being here. I'm planning to conduct a study whether a fish diet and better treatment can rehabilitate prisoners into decent men who will contribute to the well being of society rather than drain it."

"Ha!" one of the guards snorted in apparent mockery, meanwhile the other looked part-convinced.

"I think he has a point," he stated in a manner that invited an argument. "Kindness can better a man."

"It cannot!" Mullroy rolled his eyes.

"Yes. It can," Murtogg stated with a certainty like he had seen it happen.

"Are you are saying that all personal experiences, bad decisions made through an entire lifetime, detrimental habits, lies, drinking, bribery theft and murder practiced daily that shaped character and led to descent and piracy can all be forgotten in a day because a man will be offered a bowl of fish stew?"

"No," said Murtogg with a fervent nod.

The other huffed, ready to accept victory, however, Murtogg continued.

"But, I am saying that showing better treatment to the prisoners in the form of fish stew would potentially influence them into recognising good gestures from bad ones and eventually to seeing the wrongs committed by them as wrongs and therefore can lead some of the prisoners to improve their habits over a long period of time."

"So, we reveal," Murtog stated, "that it would take an enormous amount of stew and many priests to guide the prisoners over a long period of time, whereas they are very unlikely to succeed and will eventually be forced to hang the guilty parties regardless, when it's much cheaper to simply hang these pirates to begin with. Therefore, no Admiral in their right mind would initiate such a pointless study. Since there is no study, this charlatan is lying to us and should be arrested immediately."

The guard shot a victorious look at the intruder or at least at the spot where the intruder should have been. The man was gone. Instinctively, the duo rolled down the steps that led to the jail cells where they located the lying infiltrator who was conversing with a wall.

"Hey!" they yelled. "Hey, you! What do you think you're doing?"

Managing to keep balance, Jack Sparrow spun on his heel with a smirk that revealed a gold tooth, new idea to throw off the guards already formed in his mind. This was going to be a very long conversation.

* * *

The evening rolled in gradually under the orchestra of the rustling tide, igniting the stars in the sky simultaneously with the candles lit in the Governor's residence as a long train of carriages streamed towards it. The air was filled with a choir of voices that travelled far in the night and slipped through the windows into Beckett's mansion.

He wanted his voice to be a part of that celebration. James studied his reflection in the mirror, unexpectedly finding an image of a serious young man looking back at him that inspired trust. Calm certainty in his eyes and conservative yet sure movements belayed that an awkward youth had matured into a man. Perhaps, it was his father's naval blue uniform and a strict black ribbon tying back neatly arranged, brown hair that usually fell in disarray that gave him the air of confidence. Though, an imperfect fit too wide in the shoulders, he judged it to be a look passable to attend the ball.

It must have been a miracle. In spite of his stepbrothers' every attempt to ruin him, James managed to complete all chores, not without discrete help of one Theodore Groves, and then found the time to clean up properly. The uniform he diligently dusted off and brushed to perfection came from a trunk buried in a corner so remote that it was beyond Beckett's dignity to look there, although he had done much to destroy all traces of the former owner. Regardless of mockery that he owned nothing of value, there were things his stepfamily would be surprised by.

James was ready. If only Lord Beckett would keep his word. Less confident than before, James made way downstairs where his stepfamily awaited the carriage. Edmund's loud voice, raised further by an exciting event, resonated through the room. The speech cascade stopped mid-word as Edmund froze at the sight of James entering the room. His father spun around to study the cause of a sudden silence.

"I've done everything you've requested," said James, facing the steely gaze courageously, yet without rudeness or challenge, although it chilled him to the core. "With your permission, may I please attend the ball?"

"He cannot! He shouldn't!" Edward exploded, grabbing his father's arm and shaking it. "This is outrageous! How can this despicable filth be allowed to show his face at the ball?" His brother, recovering from shock, added enraged screams of protest into the mix.

"Silence!" Beckett slammed his cane against the floor, putting an end to such unbecoming behaviour. His son's froze in shock as he made several steps towards his stepson, looking him over top to bottom. The force of that examination was far more frightening that his son's tantrum. "I don't see why not," he stated so quietly that one had to strain to hear it. "After all, I've given my word. And I never break my word." His gloved hand came up to inspect the uniform's brocade with a short brush. "Congratulations on the attire. Such expensive embroidery and material appearing out of nowhere for someone who never owned a thing so fine," Beckett stated, brushing past James and turning away towards a mirror, once he was satisfied with the examination, to adjust a cuff wrinkled by his son. "What do you think, Edmund?"

"No. I hate it!" Edmund spat. His brother, however, was quicker.

"You thief!" Edward yelled, his fists flying quicker than his words at his stepbrother. "You would disgrace us all!"

James staggered under a vicious blow aimed at his heart, but it was only the beginning as Edmund figured it out. With their father's silent approval who observed the abuse through reflection, they inflicted a rain of blows onto James who wasn't resisting, satisfied only after they ripped off the uniform and threw it into the fire.

Admonishing call 'boys' from Lord Beckett, forced them to step away from their stepbrother reluctantly.

"Don't work up a sweat," he instructed, turning to them with undisturbed air like nothing happened. "I need you in pleasant disposition to make a good impression." Shadowed movement behind the window indicated that their carriage arrived. "Hurry now, we don't want to keep the Duke waiting."

Edmund raised his nose up high as he strolled out, instantly forgetting about James; whereas, Edward threw one last spiteful glare. With the two of them gone, the room fell into quiet sounds of burning fire and Lord Beckett's footfalls. They grew fainter until by the door he half-turned to cast a long glance at the crumpled figure on the floor. His voice was deceptively soft. "Goodnight," he called in parting. Never, had he an intention of letting his stepson attend the ball.

Ignoring the pain in his chest, James crawled to the fireplace. The uniform was beyond repair, but he salvaged it from the ashes regardless and stayed on his knees, cradling the remnants and staring blankly into the fire. He thought he had grown wiser. He thought he had learned his stepfather's habits to be fooled by him. Yet, he was still too eager to grasp onto a meagre thread of hope, which he couldn't regret though it opened him to deception because to cease hope meant to accept defeat. He wasn't ready to bow down to Lord Beckett as inescapable master. He waited. Something had to happen that would break this fate.

James' hand instinctively flew to the ash shovel at the non-intrusive sound that came from the window. There it was - the scraping like someone was attempting to pry the windows open from the outside. Were they thieves? James stepped out of the fire-glow into shadows. The window flew open. Wriggling, booted foot slung over the windowsill where it tried to gain hold as the intruder struggled to climb inside. The rest of the emerging visitor also hardly inspired trust. As the booted feet touched the carpet, James lunged forward with a decisive swing.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm sorry for such a late update. I never thought it would take this long. Nonetheless, it's here and you people have been wonderfully patient! Thank you for maintaining interest in the story! I hope this chapter is worth the wait.

Happy Easter!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

The force of the blow bent the handle as the ash shovel made a satisfying whack against the intruder's forehead who spun around, sensing rather than hearing an incoming attack. To his credit, the man didn't fall unconscious at once. He refused to release a rope he was tugging at to heave inside a massive bundle over the window sill, instead spinning on his heel and ending up stretched out at an odd angle to the floor. His cheek twitched at some memory, accompanied by a fine grimace. "Eleanor! I may have deserved that!" he exclaimed, briefly meeting James' dismayed stare just as the puffy ball of stuff yielded under his weight and landed with a soft thump on top of his collapsed body.

James poked the man with the ash shovel in dismay. His earlier plan to run for the guards as soon as the intruder had been neutralised had been destroyed by the stranger mistaking him for his mother, though James was unable to imagine how such a dodgy figure could have been connected to her. Working cautiously, James pushed the bundle off the man, instantly spotting a sword that had to be confiscated. Leaving this suspicious individual alone seemed like a bad idea, so he used all available means to help the man regain consciousness fast without losing the sight of him. The flowers on the nearest shelf were set aside for the water inside a vase, which James upended over the man.

The later twitched and sat up with an awkward jerk, feeling both the front and the back of his head for damage and then grabbed a fistful of nothingness by his head, which he held like a bottle that he tried to bring to his mouth.

"Who are you?" James demanded with the sword pointed at the opponent before the pirate could completely regain his bearings. He was far from confident, but his posture was convincingly more so intimidating than he gave himself credit for. "What are you doing here?"

"I may have been inclined to tell you had you not whacked that thing over my head," the man stated sourly, spotting the object of offense in James' hand.

"Don't move! Or I'll hit you again!" James snapped as the man reached for his hat, which fell off his head when he landed.

The other winced like he heard something stupid and eyed the sword with distaste. "Put it away, lad. It's not worth for you getting beat over," he stated, dismissing the command as irrelevant, which was a mistake. Before the hat was back on his head, James made good of his threat and bonked him, though far more mercifully than the first time. The intruder, however, was merely distracting him. He kicked out, hooking youngster's feet and flooring him in the process.

It was James' turn to rub the back of his head, not that the pirate after regaining possession of the sword was in a hurry to capitalise on his victory by finishing off his opponent. "Let this be a lesson to you," he claimed with a broad, theatrical gesture, "that no one can get away with challenging Captain Jack…" The last name 'Sparrow' was muffled by a thud as the pirate slipped on a piece of fish guts attached to the heel of his boot and fell down, allowing James to grab the sword from him and to point it at his throat.

"You have not answered my second question," James insisted.

The pirate seemed to realise that this was getting them nowhere and changed tactic to reveal more information, not that it made any greater sense than when he remained quiet. He grinned in a seemingly friendly fashion. "Killing your godfather would not the brightest move, especially when the above mentioned party appears here for your benefit," he said, reading clear disbelief on the far too honest face. In return, he pointedly looked James down head to toe, taking note of the torn and battered clothes. "Don't judge. You hardly look the perfect son of a nobleman."

A faint blush crept over his cheeks. James sensed that the pirate to some extent made a valid point, but something in him refused to back down or to be thrown on defensive. "I was referring to your conduct," he stated. "I'd expect my godfather to act with some degree of sensibility and decorum, which you have none of, or at least have him walk into the house through the front door like an honest man."

"No honest man walks through Lord Beckett's front door."

In spite of a lingering friendly grin, the words contained a dark undercurrent. They also seemed like the first fully genuine sentiment, the truthfulness of which coloured his brief narrative believable.

"Eighteen years ago, I've witnessed, first hand, a naval battle in the midst of which I've stumbled upon a distressed damsel or rather a damsel in distress, a distress of a rather peculiar nature at sea. Try as my conscience dictated, I couldn't leave her alone. Besides, a support beam fell and blocked the way out of the cabin where we've remained until it was over. Much unlike her husband, the fair lady was grateful enough for my assistance to name me the godfather. I've managed to persuade the crew to let me take my leave once we've been dug out."

"You've abducted an infant from a mother and used him as a ticket off the ship?" James surmised. His mother had told him that he was born at sea during a naval battle and about a stranger helping her, though this knowledge hardly meant that this was that man. Of course, this Jack Sparrow interpreted his scepticism differently.

"Now that we've established that you believe in possibility of this story with only a few details in need of clarification, what say you to letting me up?" the Captain summed up, conveniently ignoring the accusation. "You're not getting any closer to the ball by keeping me on the floor."

"Next, you will ask me for a bottle of rum." Had there been a bottle of sarcasm, it would have overflowed, which didn't stop the pirate for a moment from perking up, a hope quickly dashed. "There is none!" Nonetheless, James removed the blade, remaining close on guard as the pirate made a great show of rising and dusting off his hat. Ignoring the suspicious glare boring into him, like it was a burden he carried all his life and was well used to, Jack opened the bundle he had taken so many pains to heave inside with an inviting gesture for James to sift through it.

"What is this masquerade?" James looked in bewilderment at a wild assortment of clothes, masks and even some jewellery littering the floor.

"You haven't been listening."

"You haven't given me a reasonable explanation why I must do as you say," James countered, surmising from the disjointed speech fragments that this individual went into a great deal of trouble to issue such an unusual invitation. "You expect me to go to a ball, dressed in most likely stolen items, rashly risking Lord Beckett's wrath, because a madman suddenly appears and tells me to do so."

"Aye."

The pirate's eyes glowed amber in the dancing firelight like a thin layer of rum at the bottom of a bottle. They absorbed James' hard glare, rendering all anger and scepticism useless and compelled him to listen to a small, whispering voice at the back of the mind that urged him to act without further thought.

"I expect you to do that because it's a life changing opportunity. You can return to kneeling by the fire, beaten and without hope, or you can take the risk to break free of the shackles that hold you. Between you and me, I wouldn't underestimate the value of freedom, even though the greater the worth of that desired, the greater the pains to get it."

What did he have to lose aside from his life? A life worth so little at present state, which could not continue. Had he not been looking for ways possible and impossible to get away from Beckett? At least this is what this individual had been hinting at. This man, strange as he appeared, was no simpleton. James supposed he could play along until he had the chance to find out more of what his 'godfather' was planning. Long hesitation wasn't a part of his nature.

"While at the ball I will do no fraud, theft or any other act that goes against my moral standards," James said, refusing to acknowledge openly that he'd been coerced into the still unknown mission, though it seemed enough for the pirate who grinned in understanding.

"Let the know-hows do what they know how," he stated, "and you'll do what you know how; if you know what I mean."

James tucked the sword into his belt out of the pirate's reach, although it jammed uncomfortably into his ribs as he bent down to look through the assortment of things on the floor. To his surprise, they were all clean and made of expensive cloth no lesser in value than the outfits worn by his family to the ball, meanwhile Sparrow continued his tirade.

"It's all about trust because I need you to trust me for you to gain full and uncompromising trust of the Duke of Yorkshire."

"You want me to speak with the Duke of Yorkshire at the ball?"

Jack made a face that held little appreciation for stating the obvious, either that or gaining some form of clarity. "Meet. Speak. Befriend. Become his ultimate trustee. A first mate, so to speak."

"And that would be all, becoming a trustee of a complete stranger over the course of a few hours," James drawled out sarcastically. "Don't touch that!" he added as Jack far too suspiciously began to examine expensive candleholders atop the fireplace shelf. "Lord Beckett always notices when his things disappear."

Jack dropped the candleholder like it was a diseased rat and wiped his hand on his shirt. "Are you dressed yet?" he complained.

"Yes."

James barely refrained from shifting uncomfortably as the black eyes bore into him. "Aye, this will do," Jack surmised his brief scrutiny and then made a flapping gesture with his hands like he was shooing chickens. "Well, go on! What are you waiting for? Your horse is by the gate."

James folded his arms across his chest. "I hope you've procured better means for me to enter the reception area without raising the duke's suspicions than the ones you've used to enter this house."

"Don't be ridiculous. You'll enter through the front door with a pass."

"I refuse to use a stolen pass."

"It can't be stolen if it's yours," Jack grinned, "there's been one issued for you, which hadn't been received; until now that is."

"Then, I have no further questions that require immediate answers," James uttered, by a thin thread keeping his temper. It was tempting to snap at this Jack Sparrow. But, irritating as this man was, his anger had been building up over the years at his family. His hands balled into fists so tight, they hurt as he strolled past the pirate to the window. "I haven't missed your comment about freedom. I will expect it as an outcome of my involvement," James surmised before jumping down into the night unknown.


	7. Chapter 7

Hellooooo,

I'm still alive! No aliens have abducted me. XD Thank you for waiting! I hope this update will be fun.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The Duke of Yorkshire needed no formal introduction for James to deduct that this is the man he had to reach. The Duke's lean figure, surrounded by an impenetrable wall of friends and flatterers, stood out in the brilliance of the glittering hall that had so stunned James when he first walked in. From his place, the Duke controlled all, frequently glancing at the only other group that rivalled his circle where his daughter was flirting with her admirers.

James made out a brief glimpse of blond locks and a mask. Otherwise, the young lady was hidden. As curious as he was about the famous beauty, his attention never wavered from the Duke and another man at his right elbow. Lord Beckett asserted his position at the Duke's side, denying all others access to his confidence with a glow of surety that everyone else was wasting their time. James never assumed that getting the Duke's attention would be easy, but this was the only person in the room he could not challenge.

James took an observation position by the snack tables where he could see stay out of Beckett's sight as the later occasionally swept the room with a cold gaze in search of a slightest threat to his marriage plans. Two hours passed. Still, his stepfather showed no sign of vacating his position.

"How curious, I was not aware that anyone would come to this ball with a purpose other than winning Miss Yorkshire's hand, and the Duke's good graces and benefits this hand promises. Emptying the cook's pantry, however, does seem a nobler motivation."

It took a fair measure of restraint to face the reprimanding person calmly. There was a brief surge of relief as James recognised that the comment came from an attractive young woman not in a position to remove him from the festivities for such an offence. The ease didn't last as he saw his hand occupying a place by a nearly empty tray. There was little doubt that he had eaten almost everything on it. James coloured, unaware that this bout of shyness would cause the flutter butterflies in a young lady assessing him.

"If every attendee was here for exactly the same reason, than according to your logic you too should be courting Miss Yorkshire," he managed a reply.

Sandy eyebrow went up above the pearl mask that concealed her features as the girl evaluated his wit. A twinge of satisfaction coursed through him as she accepted the reply as clever enough.

"I'm Stella." Young lady curtseyed. There was an impudent tilt to her shoulders in spite of a deferring gesture. "Miss Yorkshire's cheerful disposition may not be the best match for me. I prefer someone of serious and more reliable."

"You're in luck. There are many candidates today to choose from."

Blue eyes, dancing with a pack of mischievous imps, narrowed as she questioned whether he missed her flirting or it was a joke. James had in fact missed her interest. He was completely oblivious that he had drawn a number of gazes from the present women, sisters and wives of the invited, when he entered, although he asked to leave his name unannounced. Unassuming, yet sophisticated manner which accompanied his every move drew admiration. He had no intent to impress, to flaunt his strengths in order to outshine the competitor beside him. He simply walked like a man confident in his right. All that prompted the young lady to observe him and eventually to approach. However, the conversation she hoped for never occurred as their interaction was cut short by his abrupt remark.

"You must excuse me." In spite of unexpected reluctance to depart, James swiftly took off to follow the Duke who took sudden leave of his guests and abandoned Frontenac to cover his retreat. Short, round man, didn't seem like much, but he effectively discouraged even the most persistent men from following with a few well placed remarks.

James, being apart from the group, fell out of that circle of influence. He slipped past the guests into the same corridor, in turn closely followed by the young lady. Completely unused to being treated such, she stared after him in lofty contemplation whether he had been worth approaching, but then gathered her skirts, pushing aside great pride, and sprinted after him, both annoyed and filled with curiosity.

"I wonder how you intend to get past the guards without my help," she chimed when it was too late to issue a warning. Two soldiers with muskets slung over their shoulders were posted at the double doors that led to the rest of the house behind which the Duke disappeared. They spotted the intruder.

James threw a quick glare at Stella, a step out of their sight, who showed no interest in being spotted by them as well. Her eyes twinkled with mischief, though something in them spoke that she wasn't going to leave him. Thus cornered, James forced calmness as he headed directly for the guards, recalling that he was no longer dressed in dirty rags that drew suspicion.

"Are you lost, Sir?" one of them questioned amiably enough.

"I do not believe so. Unless this corridor does not lead to the Governor's study," James tried to sound convincing, not that lies were his forte. "I've received an urgent summon from His Excellency."

"I'm sorry. We've received no orders to let anyone enter." The guard was unwilling to get into an argument with a noble guest, but couldn't allow him entrance.

"Perhaps, he's been too preoccupied to inform you. It appears to be an unplanned request. Otherwise, His Excellency wouldn't have left the guests so urgently."

"A servant who issued the Duke's command should have accompanied you to pass the word that you're waiting," the guard retorted stoutly.

"I cannot be held responsible for the servants' shortcomings in this household." James wished he could have been kinder. These men were doing their job, which he respected.

The sympathy, however, was one sided. This young man's confidence sincerely irritated Lieutenant Harris who after fifteen years of service developed a strong dislike for any individual who felt entitled to make his job difficult just because they socially outranked him. Thus, he was more inclined to hold his ground when he was right. He may have thought the servants lazy on separate occasions, but not negligent when it came to Yorkshire's direct orders. This person at the very least was a liar or worse. His suspicions hadn't formed, however, as a resounding crash and a feminine distressed shriek shook the area.

"I've heard a shot!" James exclaimed, bringing the guards into motion. "Pirates! Everyone says they infiltrate ports!" His intuition was telling him that this was not a true alarm as he made a great show of charging to the rescue since the guards weren't sure whether to investigate the scream or detain him. "It must be a kidnapping!

The guards needed no further encouragement since the 'kidnapping' sounded like a big scandal that put their jobs at risk. They couldn't allow the guests to be kidnapped from the ball! James kindly allowed them to outrun him, falling behind until he could turn and head back.

Gaining entry was only half the trouble. Beyond the doors stretched the usual maze present in any large, unfamiliar house. Weary of running into more guards, James searched the rooms methodically one by one with a small voice urging him to act faster. His disappearance from the rescue operation was soon to be noticed. He imagined it wouldn't be favourable, but hardly pictured the amount of suspicion his action elicited.

Having had the pleasure of a wild rush to the crime scene, the guards discovered a toppled candleholder made of blackened iron that was sure to create an effect of a cannon fire once it hit the stone floor. Otherwise, a brief area search revealed no signs of a struggle. There was no sign of villains or the victim or even a stray house pet. Lieutenant Harris even searched the flower bed below the nearest window as his suspicions that they've been duped intensified. Fresh memory of pirates that ignited the pursuit in the first place took hold of his imagination. The refined nobleman wasn't a guest. He was a disguised pirate who had an accomplice to distract them while the pirate infiltrated the port with the malicious intent to rob or worse assassinate the Duke!"

"This way, Ryerson!" he barked at the colleague, charging back to unguarded doors, full of righteous intent to eliminate the threat. The pirate had to be arrested for questioning. Better yet, thrown into jail and then searched and questioned. Unless he resisted as he surely would. Then, it was best to shoot him on the spot.

Unaware of bloodthirsty thoughts, James was alerted by the stomping loud enough to shake an Egyptian sphinx awake from a thousand years of rest and the bang of the doors flung open as the pair charged through them. He took cover behind a tapestry at the end of the hall where a few doors remained that he hadn't tried. The tapestry was a poor observation spot where only a part of the nearest door was visible through a narrow crack. He waited blindly as the guards' thundering stampede grew uncomfortably closer and closer. James held his breath upon hearing their heavy gasps as they stopped to regain theirs'.

"What is the meaning of this commotion?" The nearest room opened, arresting the pair into stillness as the Duke took in the messengers' ruffled appearance with sudden concern, questioning what brought them to his door in such a wild rush. "Is my daughter well?"

"Your daughter is well," Harris reported. "We suspect there's a disguised criminal roaming the halls. We advise caution, Your Excellency. He looks like a guest who insisted that he has an immediate audience with you, which is doubtful since you've passed no orders."

"You are correct. I called no urgent meeting. Regardless, I imagine there are many who would claim they must have an urgent conversation with me. They may be stretching the truth, but that hardly makes them criminals," the duke reasoned. "I ask that you practice discretion when dealing with guests. I don't want them offended."

"Yes, Sir," lieutenant agreed, although he looked more willing to shoot the so called guests.

The guards conversed in subdued voices how to proceed as the Duke left them with the permission to continue. James waited long after their voice faded. The door that led to the study was visible from his position. Only two steps separated him from the handle. Judging by the conversation, the Duke was a reasonable man who'd hardly execute him for entering uninvited, though he would think it ill manners. James hoped ill introduction would be softened because the Duke would be pleased to see his old friend's son. James vaguely remembered attending one event where both his father and the Duke were present, as well as their warm interaction. The crazy pirate must have known about that connection and threw his gambling dice on it. Otherwise, it was truly impossible to enter the man's confidence under such circumstances. The last thought pushed James to act. He brushed aside the tapestry, but rather than going forward he was pushed back by a musket jammed into his chest at once.

"Search him." Harris couldn't prevent smugness from spreading across his face. He suspected that tapestry as soon as he saw it and it was his idea to circle back to it. However, the satisfaction of gaining the benefit of surprise was short lived. The prisoner hardly reacted like a man with a guilty conscience.

"This treatment is outrageous! Unhand me at once!" James tried his best to imitate Edmund's ill temper whenever he was boiling with indignation. "The Duke will hear of this! I will issue a formal complaint letter to your commanding officer! You have no right to treat me like a criminal!"

Harris winced. His ears were growing sore of hearing high-pitched complaints. Maybe they weren't dealing with a disguised pirate after all but with a young man who was used to getting everything he wanted. He glanced at his colleague for help.

"I found nothing." Ryerson said apologetically. "No weapons."

Nonetheless, Harris didn't back down. He hadn't earned his rank by being so easily discouraged. "I'm confident someone will provide you with an inkwell in the detention area while we investigate. Several hours will give you plenty of time to issue that letter as well as any other protests you may have," he said firmly. He removed the weapon from the prisoner's chest to escort him, not expecting a devious resistance from the spoiled brat who with an unexpected agility pulled down the tapestry on top of them. Soft material entangled the musket like it never wanted to part with it while the prisoner lunged for the door and twisted the handle.

Locked. The luxury of knocking politely and waiting to be acknowledged was not available, thus James took the only available route, reaching the end of the corridor before his pursuers were free. His escape was covered by the clock striking twelve as light-footed he raced past the doors, already having learned the way. He slowed down the breathing and forced a respectable pace as he approached the front door where the guests were waiting for their carriages, startled to realise that many were leaving. He never noticed how fast the evening flew by.

"I don't care that it's crowded! Any carriage driver who makes their master wait this long deserves to be flogged!"

Irritated voice he had imitated cut through the crowd. James didn't need to turn his head to be convinced that his family was nearby. He hurried to escape the hall, also spotting Lieutenant Harris who halted at the entrance where he searched the crowd with keen eye and fervour that matched the best hounds.

James slipped away discretely. Once outside, he ran down the darkened path to the line of flowering bushes where he had hidden the horse. Rhythmic thud of the hooves as the obedient beast too tired of waiting sprung into action helped him focus on the urgent task of reaching home before his family. He would change back into rags, destroying all evidence that he ever had the chance to attend the ball. In the blur of the trees and buildings veiled by night the Jack Sparrow suddenly felt unreal, like he had met a mirage that would forever fade into nothingness at the first touch of reality. Acute sense of failure would haunt him later when he'll pretend that this night never happened and forget how briefly he had held an elusive freedom at the tip of his fingers.


	8. Chapter 8

Lord Cutler Beckett had never been fully satisfied with his cabin aboard any ship. No matter how luxurious, it always lacked the vast space for a map stretching across an entire wall of his inland quarters that befitted full grandiose of his plans. The sea was a vast Empire, but he had to rule it from a small office. He accepted that with a grain of sea salt, practicality always gaining an upper hand over small inconveniences that were beyond his dignity. The one who wished to rule the sea had to sail. And the one who wished to strengthen his hold over the sea through marriage had to ignore his future in-law's cautious neutrality towards him.

He didn't suppress a pang of irritation at the memory how welcoming Yorkshire had been within the first hour when he made inquiries about James Norrington and how step by step he retreated behind the mask of politeness as the evening progressed. Beckett loathed to be reduced to a status of an in between man who'd bring news about his stepson. Quite possibly, the Duke harboured some fantasy about a union between his daughter and a son of his passed away friend. A fantasy Lord Beckett vindictively suppressed. It was a true tragedy, he told the Duke, that after losing his parents young James would lose his mind. His stepson would act otherwise normal until something small would trigger a burst of violence, deadly harmful to him and the others. Lord Beckett expressed regret that his stepson couldn't attend the ball because it was best for his health to limit the interaction with anyone who may trigger the memories of his father.

He then reminded the Duke that in spite of tragedies, one must always look ahead to the future, especially when it so closely concerned their children. He too was a father of two outstanding sons. Regardless of an impression Lord Beckett got that the partner must be to his daughter's likes, Yorkshire was no fool. Even he couldn't ignore the power waiting to be forged by their union, as Beckett had subtly pointed out throughout the evening. No man with a position so high at court was short on ambition. Lord Cutler Beckett, better than anyone, knew the ways to harness ambitions. The bargaining chips were human desires; that's what bought stronger cooperation than gold. By this power, all foolish sentiments, just like his stepson, would be forced to disappear.

Following an urge to assert his power, Beckett reached for the painting behind which lay hidden James' ball invitation when a disquieting sense of being watched stilled him. "How many times must I tell you to announce your presence to me at once?" He turned with a deliberate control to show that he was annoyed rather than disturbed by the intrusion, allowing a black clad man to reveal his presence to spare the master an embarrassment over having to look around the room.

"I had to be sure that no one will overhear us."

"Oh?" Beckett drawled out. "You don't suppose there is anyone skilful enough to counter the measures I've taken to ensure none of my private conversations leave this room?"

Chilling mockery that normally penetrated the addressed was lost on the assassin. "I found Doctor Evans," he reported, and squabbling suddenly lost sense.

"When can he pay me a visit? After all, it's impolite to spend seventeen years out of touch with an old acquaintance he owes much."

Mercer had a tendency to end conversations on a note that left the other party with a vague sense of a threat and brooding. This was unlikely to be an exception.

"He's a fallen man locked up in the Port Royal jail."

"I see a minor delay, not a problem," flawlessly smooth tone betrayed hidden irritation. "Unless a minor delay can become a problem."

"The gossip has seen more," Mercer confirmed his suspicions. "Yesterday, a woman who lives on the town outskirts was carrying her wares to the market, when in the morning fog she saw a dim outline of a ship with the black sails."

"Some people never learn to keep their noses out of my business." Beckett didn't trust coincidences. So, the Captain of the Black Pearl wanted to learn more about his past. No sympathy came from Mercer who watched him with a deadly indifference, prepared to follow any command. Lord Beckett, however, was disinclined to relent just for convenience. The doctor had to live long enough to be interrogated. "Do what is most efficient," he ordered, "but keep in mind that every well guarded secret has a revelation day, sometimes even after the death of the secret keeper. I must be sure it has remained buried after so many years and no traces of it will extend into the future."

Mercer understood.

* * *

Although cool morning fog was putting up a brave fight, its traces were melting away under the rays of an early sun steadily climbing over the masts into the sky. It left a lingering sensation on the back and shoulders of the young man hard at work.

Observing the scene, midshipman Groves contemplated why James insisted on doing even the dirtiest task with perfectionist zeal, knowing well in advance that he'll never receive gratification for it. There was a howling injustice in anyone slaving away when the rest of the world was relaxed over a morning meal. He figured it was best fixed by an interruption.

"Tisk, tisk, all this deck swabbing is ought to put a leak in our hull one day," Groves called out to his friend after a roguish glance around the deck to make sure no bitter gossipers were within an ear shot to betray them. "Tell me, do Lord Beckett's ships like this one sink often due to imperative orders?"

There may have been time when his words would have been perceived as a threat, but now he was lucky to have James' trust and cutting wit perched at the tip of his tongue.

"No, usually once is enough," he parried.

Theodore grinned at the reply and settled beside his friend who continued.

"No coin for your thoughts though. I'd hate to see this ship sunk."

"Sorry, didn't think about it." It had slipped his mind that this ship in the past belonged to Admiral Norrington. "Though, judging by your shocked face, you thought me incapable of thinking."

"It's never too late to learn," James inserted helpfully.

"Must be why I seek your company. Why else anyone would hang around a man whose every word is a spike of a sea urchin."

"Masochist pleasure or ominous motivations. Do you have any ideas why my stepfather ordered me to return with him to the ship when he had nothing for me to do here? Surely, it wasn't for the pleasure of my company."

"What makes you say that?" Groves prompted, no less intrigued than James, though he was hardly a privy to Beckett's plans.

"Ever since we've entered the port, he wants to control my every action, more so than ever. Today, I felt that he ordered me to come along because he wanted to keep an eye on me. When we got here, he told me to swab the deck mindlessly like he hardly cared, choosing it only because it's considered a lowly duty."

Seeing that they've settled down, Groves produced a healthy sandwich and split it in two, offering a half to James, but didn't take a bite out of it, preoccupied with thought. "He secretly plots your demise," he stated.

"That's hardly a secret." James watched his friend intently, unsure whether to tell him about the pirate he met last night. He couldn't exclude the possibility that the Captain and Beckett's strange behaviour were linked. Two heads were better than one in solving this mystery. He almost resolved to tell when their snack enjoyment was interrupted by a desperate yell.

"Let me go, you big bully! This is my sandwich!"

The pair exchanged quick looks, jumping to their feet and sprinting in the direction the yell came from. The view that greeted them was ugly. Brown was holding Phillip by the scruff of his neck over the railing. The eight year old looked terrified, but his face was scrunched up in a bout of true childish stubbornness. He squished a sandwich in his hand stretched as far away from the offender as possible.

"You seem to not understand the danger of your situation," Brown dictated, clearly enjoying the boy's fright. "You're about to become a sandwich to the fishies below unless you hand yours over."

"Let him go, Brown!" Theodore shouted.

The crewman spun around angrily. Upon their master's insistence, the Captain ran daily discipline routines ever since they've entered the port, thus denying him the opportunity to bully other crewmen for their food. He was hungry, angry and more so frustrated that he had no one to take out his bad temper on. "Stay out of it," he growled, welcoming a fight.

Theodore's fists clenched. He long wanted to punch the oaf in the nose. But, he thought Brown stupid enough to actually release Phillip into water. Threatening to give him a black eye would do no good since the crewman wasn't afraid of him, which didn't mean he wasn't afraid of his commanding officers. "I could," Theodore spat though clenched teeth, "just thought I'd warn you that Lieutenant-Commander doesn't let his son stray too far. Since one is aboard, so is the other."

"Looking for his stray offspring as usual."

"Sir!" Theodore nearly jumped out of his skin. He missed James' subtle warning that someone was coming. He was about to stammer an explanation when he caught sight of an angered expression he had never witnessed before. Gillette's gaze was fixed on the crewman with the intensity to melt him into the deck like pine resin.

Brown looked like a caged shark. He realized that it was no good to be caught in the middle of the fight with his superior by the Lieutenant-Commander while holding his son by the scruff on his neck.

"Release. My. Son."

Brown released his prey. Phillip landed on the deck with a painful thud and then ran to his father, barely holding tears. Once Gillette had his son's hand in his, Philip saw his sandwich trampled under Brown's dirty boot. That broke the damn and he bawled loudly.

"Hey," said Theodore, "You can have my sandwich."

The boy studied the offering through tears and then stretched out his arm to take it. Had the fight ended there, James would have walked away without trouble. Unfortunately, the incident attracted the last man he wanted to see. The deck sunk into ominous silence as Lord Beckett approached, calmly accessing the situation. Nothing escaped his attention as he spared the longest stare for James that was no less threatening than Gillette's had been.

Slithering reproach first coiled around Lieutenant-Commander. "One thing I cannot stand is the bawling children. This is why as I rule, they usually don't come on board of my ships," Beckett said softly.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I will speak to my son. He'll be more reserved," the indignation Gillette tried to suppress, however, broke through reserve. "Nevertheless, Mr Brown's behaviour is unacceptable! This man should be thrown into the brig, trialed and discharged from the navy. He tried to kill my son!"

"Allow me to decide who should be on my ship," Beckett cut him off, seemingly unaffected by Gillette's anger. "The navy does not have that many competent recruits to go about discharging perfectly experienced men. There will be an investigation, thorough and fair. I promise Mr Brown will be disciplined along with every party responsible." He turned away from the pale with anger Lieutenant-Commander to access the remaining participants, but addressed the officer. "What was their role in this conflict?"

"Midshipman Groves and Mr Norrington were attempting to help," said Gillette.

"That doesn't mean they haven't aggravated the situation. I'd expect you'd be stricter where your son's life is concerned. They were angering a crewman who could have harmed him." As Lieutenant-Commander withheld any forming protests, nothing prevented the finishing touch, "To the brig - all three of them."

There was no need to check whether the order would be obeyed. Lord Beckett turned away smoothly, with his departure indicating that this conversation was over and leaving stunned silence at his back.


	9. Chapter 9

Quiet balcony overlooking the sea must have served faithfully as a contemplation spot for those men who had stood there before him. There was something inviting in the overarching tree crowns shading the stone tiles and the streak of blue shimmering in the distance that invited men to evaluate those things that lay heavy on their hearts. And it so happened, one of them concerned the Duke closely.

It was mind boggling how he controlled ships and lands that counted hundreds, yet failed to make the slightest impression on the discipline of a single daughter. Beatrice eluded him since the ball ended. Even her close companion, Stella, was unable to help him. It was like his daughter didn't want to discuss the experience with him. Of course she didn't. Although, he hadn't a chance to approach her due to her flirting and dancing with endless partners, no one made a lasting impression on her, and she parted with all her suitors with a light heart. The only one to be crossed with was himself for getting the hopes up. No one could control another's heart.

"Father?"

As if the last thought earned him forgiveness, his daughter suddenly appeared. She slipped her hands around his waist and pressed her cheek to his back. The gesture was apologetic as well in knowing that she shouldn't have avoided him. She appeared to be subdued as if some deeply left imprint was lingering on her mind.

"I've heard an interesting rumor that someone tried to contact you yesterday outside the ballroom."

"So the guards claim." There was an elusive question behind her words, but he wasn't sure what exactly she wanted to learn. "Whoever he is, he never reached me."

"How strange. Had the mysterious guest left no name?"

"Why would he? I believe the lieutenant claimed he is dangerous."

"It's his job to suspect even a stray mouse," she pointed out, but there wasn't a true bite behind her usual tone prone to witty remarks.

"You think someone may have had a good reason to get my attention with the information that shouldn't be brought up in front of the others?" he prompted, motioning her to stand beside him. A wind of gossip may have carried to her some news he was not yet aware of.

Beatrice did so gracefully, folding her hands on the balustrade in a picture of nearly perfect obedience had it not been for one stray lock of golden hair that escaped her hair pinned up in the latest fashion. "It's very much possible," she didn't elaborate. "Do you to know what happened to the ball invitation slips? Someone may have gained entrance, but asked to be unannounced."

"The baron may help you with them. He has an astounding memory when it comes to keeping tabs of social visits. However, I would be happier had my daughter accepted some of the social invitations, instead of unraveling shady mysteries."

"Oh, but that's awfully dull!" she exclaimed, even in the thoughtful state never losing a streak of insubordination, but she also loved her father and wanted to please him even if she hardly agreed with any of his ideas regarding her nearest future. "At least let them come to us again!" Some idea suddenly lit up in her mind. "Will you ask the baron to organize another ball?"

"You want to host another ball?" he asked, quite astounded. He was pleased, of course, but awfully suspicious. That wasn't like his daughter at all.

"Would it be so difficult to believe that I can enjoy such occasion once in a while? I used to love them, until someone has gotten an idea that I'm in need of a husband."

"You did because you were too young and thus disallowed to attend. Now, the thrill of it is gone."

She only smiled at his insight and took his hand, motioning him away from the balustrade into an open space where she could waltz around him. "Will you trouble the good baron once more to arrange it for me?" she asked, opening her blue eyes wide and full of hope. "I can dance and dance all night long."

"I don't believe I ever had the choice of saying no," Yorkshire chuckled. "That's what all fathers do – whatever their daughters ask of them, even if the rest of the world obeys their command."

She smiled, kissed his cheek and was gone, light as a butterfly. No doubt to seek that stranger, which was far more entertaining than spending an evening with her old, stodgy father, he thought, unaware that in doing so she was fulfilling both of their wishes.

* * *

"I want you to witness the consequences of your actions."

James lowered his head, doing nothing to provoke further abuse, but Lord Beckett was in a truly vindictive mood.

"Don't look away for this is your fault," he prompted, forcefully raising James' chin to observe crewman Brown tied up bareback between two beams. "You should be in his place. You started the conflict, you and that little friend of yours, though Lieutenant-Commander has been deceived, and now I am forced to punish someone else."

James feigned indifference, though his heart squeezed painfully at the vengeance awaiting his friend, and directed blank gaze at the old scars crisscrossing the prisoner's back that served as a reminder that he had a long history of starting trouble. This day was going to leave scars that would remain imprinted into his flesh for the rest of his life because Brown was handed over to a man who earned a nickname, the Butcher. Rumors whispered that he plucked an eyeball out with his whip during one of the punishments. The Butcher had no official rank, nor any friends, for he was grim at best when in a good mood, and only appeared when a particularly severe violation took place aboard the ship that was only short of hanging. James always avoided those beatings, repulsed when the punishment was served in public by how some crewmen held an unhealthy fascination with watching every gory detail.

Forcing him to watch, however, wasn't enough. Lord Beckett wasn't fooled by his lack of interest. The day brought a highly unpleasant revelation that his stepson had hidden allies and well-wishers who had to be eradicated. "Don't think Mr Groves will get off as lightly as spending a night in the brig for taking part in a brawl. The punishment will be indirect and long lasting," he informed James. "For shame, the captain intended to promote him to lieutenant. This may set that promotion back several years, if not forever. Next time you choose to associate with someone, contemplate how getting along with you may damage their future."

He may have said more, but Gillette's appearance put an end to the mockery.

"How good of you to join us, Lieutenant-Commander," Beckett pronounced smoothly, turning away from James like he had forgotten that anyone was there.

"You've summoned me," Gillette underlined that he hadn't a choice of refusing attendance. Stiff posture was a good indication that he was still angry and far from thinking that the matter had been solved justly.

"You've called for strict disciplinary measures regarding Mr Brown's unacceptable conduct," Beckett responded to his thoughts as he studied Gillette who stood pale with suppressed emotions. "I deem your declaration just. Everyone must obey the rules laid out by the East Trading Company as long as they work for it. To be assured that no deviation will be tolerated, you have full right to oversee this man's punishment personally."

Butcher dunked the cat of nine tails into salty water, deducting that his turn was near, as Beckett dropped his voice enough to let his words linger. "Don't be leaving until it's done." It was an order to be carried out.

The whip tore the air with a menacing hiss, ripping the first scream from the prisoner's throat. Butcher raised and lowered his arm rhythmically, adjusting his feet and upper body to direct the whip into striking the same places and then a spot still unmarked like it was art. Blood poured down the man's back liberally with the torn pieces of human flesh stripped away. The whip penetrated down to the bones.

Lieutenant-Commander clasped his hands behind his back in a stone grip. Even when his imagination had provided a bloodthirsty scene when he saw his son threatened, and he wanted nothing better than to toss the man overboard to the sharks, that's where the threat should have ended. He never expected the imaginary to cross into tangible world. Much like James, he hadn't much love for torture.

In contrast, Lord Beckett regarded the man as an insignificant pawn disdainfully with an extinguished interest in the dealt justice as the screams intensified. He abandoned the group to attend to other important matters, having given the Butcher all orders in advance. After the torture Gillette could go wherever he wanted, the crewman was to be returned to his post, and James taken ashore, away from his friend, where he'd be locked away securely.

* * *

Baron Frontenac was not the slightest bit amused charged with the dull duty of leafing through dozens of gold invitation slips. A bid of sweat tickled his skin as it slid down his spine. Strained sight combined with the heat allowed the flourishing letters to converge into blurs, significantly complicating the sorting. A mountain of slips was arranged into three piles: the names of those who he was confident had attended were haphazardly tossed into the biggest pool, a few names lay in the middle of whom he was not certain but knew which person to ask to confirm their attendance, whereas, the last spot reserved for the reason of his search still remained unoccupied. There were no mysterious guests. Everyone who attended was eager to pay their respects to the Duke as soon as possible.

Frontenac pushed the slips away and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I need a drink," he muttered to himself. The pile toppled as he attempted awkwardly to raise numbed limbs from the armchair and one of the slips spiraled down onto the floor. A brief thought occurred to him to let the maid pick it up, but then he went down on his knee to grab it.

A name engraved on the page caught his attention – James Norrington. Frontenac blinked, tempted to clear his eyesight once more, and brought it into the light streaming from the open window. This had to be what they were looking for.

Cool air sunk into his bones as he entered the library and he made a note to reevaluate his opinion about educational activities. Rapid clicking of his heels against the stone tiles disturbed the silence.

"Have you found something?" The Duke rose from a soft bench where he was reclining comfortably with a book in hand.

The baron handed over the slip, receiving an immediate confirmation that his assumptions were correct.

"But, Lord Beckett informed me that his stepson was unwell." Yorkshire studied the slip in puzzlement.

"I imagine there are only two possibilities," the baron surmised. "Either Mr Norrington arrived unannounced because he was concerned that his family will be troubled and thus avoided them. Or, someone unauthorized used his invitation to gain entry."

"According to the guards, it was a young man," the Duke said thoughtfully. "Your second version does not sound realistic. Why would anyone pose as a son of my old friend when their identity can be easily confirmed?"

The baron had a lot of ideas all of which hardly depicted the culprit in favorable light and at the very least bode disaster, but the Duke spoke up before he voiced those concerns. "Please find Lieutenant Harris and inform him that I would like to speak to this young man. Until proven otherwise, he is to be treated as a guest and escorted to my office should he visit again. Notify me immediately when that happens."

"Do you believe he may attend should we organize another ball?" the baron prompted.

"Perhaps," said Yorkshire. The name on the slip came from the past he had lost connection to through the years much to his regret. "I hope this ball will bring all the mysteries to light."


	10. Chapter 10

"Oh please, oh please, Stella! This is important!"

The blond studied her friend's eyes, widened in pleading, so much like her own except for a subtle shade of blue, one dark royal and another like a sky. They were of a friend she did not want to say no to. Stella clung to little resolve because common sense had to prevail at least some day. "Don't ask me to do this again! I cannot believe we've gotten away with it once and you wish to repeat the experiment. Can you imagine the scandal?"

"I suppose you're right." Beatrice retreated across the room towards a piano and began leafing through a book innocently enough which convinced Stella that she won't give up. "Had the evening been truly awful?"

"I'm still trembling at the mere thought."

Beatrice touched the keys, giving life to romantic notes that filled the room and the heart. "It must have been my imagination when I saw you smiling, especially when the count was so attentive," her voice intertwined with the music. "Shame should the way he's been looking at you be lost."

"I don't know what count. There were so many," Stella answered, except the heat rising up to her cheeks betrayed a lie.

"The one who will be most disappointed to find me in your place."

"I highly doubt anyone in that room wanted me in your stead."

Weaving an intricate melody, Beatrice allowed her friend to reflect as the other approached the piano and leaned beside her to enjoy the melody regardless of all the protests. The question bubbled up until she couldn't withhold it.

"How exactly has he been looking at me?"

Beatrice titled blond head slightly, unwilling to conceal her mirth and Stella knew that once more she's been beaten.

* * *

Greedy eye raked over every inch of the opulent mansion like he wanted to strip it down to the nails. "Nice place! Do we get to rob it?" Ragetti exchanged teary-eye glance with Pintel like their suffering years of waiting for the captain to shower them in riches finally paid off.

In response, Jack pressed an expressive assembly of a pink apron and a broom into the pirate's hands. "No," he cut down their expectations. "That wouldn't make sense."

The comment wiped out two satisfied grins.

"So," Pintel clarified, "The point of dressing into female garb that should assist with getting past very dangerous guards in order to get inside the gold and jewel encrusted mansion is NOT to expropriate the riches?"

Jack took a deep breath like he intended to dive into lengthily and entirely satisfactory explanation. "Give me a favor," he said, leaning in like a conspirator, "Try not to horrify, scare, terrify or otherwise frighten anyone prematurely once we're inside."

Leaving the other to encrypt what that means, he headed towards the mansion pursued by Ragetti's whisper, "So, why are we going to be doing the house work?" followed by the sound of someone punching somebody in the face.

As much as it was dubious whether the duo were help or hindrance, reaching the whelp locked up in the basement promised to be harder than getting to him the first time. Jack also risked much by carrying a certain item on his person, if in all fairness that was the safest place, upon which rested success of the entire plan.

Tripping over the dress hems, burdened with brooms and buckets, the pirate-maidens resembled a giant, rattling turtle that rolled towards two astounded East Trading Company goons.

"House cleaning inspection!" Ragetti announced in a high-pitched, feminine voice.

"I've never heard of such thing," the goon confessed as the gaudy woman closest to him suddenly lifted her face that was covered with a bonnet down to her nose and two malicious eyes glowing yellow peered at him from its shadow.

"Oh, it's a local specialty," the ghoul announced and clobbered him over the head with the bucket just the second ghoul mirrored the action. Jack delicately tiptoed past the pileup, borrowing only the key. He avidly motioned the pair to hide the unconscious men.

Knowing the whelp's habit of prematurely clubbing unexpected visitors over the head, he nudged the door open and instantly leapt aside. Contrary to anyone startled by the jail being flung open without a visible man who unlocked it, James did not voice any questions. Tiredness clung to him as he emerged cautiously from the basement, but in no way was he defeated. Jack saw the air of steel determination as if being locked up for three days aged the boy several years.

"If you want my further assistance, you must first provide a truthful explanation why you want me to contact the duke. Secondly, should the first be to my satisfaction, I will need help in removing Lord Beckett from the scene because he never leaves his Excellence's side," he spoke at the sight of a widely grinning captain.

"Mate, you wound me with the lack of a basic greeting when it's customary to thank your savior."

"Thank you," chilling tone could have re-frozen the ice as James brushed past the captain, going off into unknown direction, however, with a strong purpose.

"You do realize that the only way from here is back to the basement unless you cooperate," Jack stated, tiptoeing after James.

"I will never return to this basement again or to this family. I cannot abide when they destroy my friends and my freedom."

Expressed sentiment struck a chord. This was no whelp. This was a man, and a dangerous one at that, who had a short, difficult life that smarted quickly. Something happened that made him give up on a diplomatic solution with his family. As someone who divided the world into black and white, by default they because his enemies to be treated linearly as such.

"Your coveted and no longer recognized relation committed an act that would be enough to bring any hard working, law abiding, aside from the act itself, man to the gallows. If you are looking for ways to trim his influence on your future, it will be in your undivided interests to bring the evidence of this act to a figure holding greater authority than the culprit."

James stopped, which Jack used to the advantage of sliding a letter held in between two fingers over young man's shoulder. "The evidence's right here," Jack whispered, "in a thing so small that can fundamentally alter lives of so many should a trustworthy man pass it to the Duke. Just knowing about it is enough to get a man killed."

James reached for the letter, stopping when his fingers touched the envelope. "You're wrong to assume that I'm looking for revenge. I'm looking for justice."

"It's surprising how blurred the lines become, which slights justice whenever a man is convinced that he's right."

James gripped the letter tight. "I'll risk taking it into my own hands."

Jack relinquished it into his possession.

* * *

He took it as an ill premonition when Mercer intercepted him at the entrance of the Duke's mansion. Lord Beckett motioned his sons to proceed to the ballroom while he received the news. Mercer was brief.

"I couldn't arrange for Evans to speak with you. He had to contend with me."

"What did he win in the exchange?" said Beckett ironically.

"Death," said Mercer unperturbed. "He died in fear. He died in pain."

"I'm only interested in what he divulged before dying," Beckett spoke like he intended to tax in gold every moment of his valuable time wasted by the other.

"He claimed to have passed a sealed and signed confession letter to a man named John Fisher in jail right under the guards' noses. They've confessed to chasing away some fishy rascal a week ago. The description fits Jack Sparrow."

"I should hope you've located either the letter or the captain after several days."

"Neither."

"That's not good, Mr Mercer," fury seethed under sternly controlled tone. "That's not good at all. He never showed up to negotiate his demands, whereas several days should have provided an opportunity, which means he intended this letter for someone else." Beckett considered his long list of enemies, estimating which one would want to raise ashes of the past scattered by the wind over ten years.

"Your stepson would stand to gain the most."

"I can handle my stepson."

Mercer didn't object. He had other suspects. "The captain still hasn't left the island. Whoever the receiving party is, they're also here."

Beckett threw at the assassin a look of contempt reserved for those failing in their duties that served as a final warning. "Find them and find the means to keep them silent as a grave."

As Mercer disappeared from his side, Beckett weighted out the options and then turned away from the mansion in favor of calling for the carriage. Intuition screamed that whoever was digging a grave for him was not in pursuit of trivialities such as money or an advantageous deal. They wanted to remove him from power.

He may have dismissed the notion vindictively, however, the voiced suspicion about his stepson threatened to rob him of cool detachment through which he regarded the world. He ignored James ever since locking him up with full confidence that no one will look for him.

"My Lord? Where should I take you?" The carriage driver hadn't expected to see his master before midnight.

"Take me back to my residence as fast as possible," Beckett ordered.

* * *

The letter, marred by multiple smudges, was written in wavering hand. Pushing aside the shame of reading what wasn't addressed directly to him, James decrypted unsteady lines that had no mistakes, while the writer's voice belonged to an educated man to whom life had dealt an unmerciful hand.

_Let no man be the judge of this confession. The choice between my daughter and a patient from whom I've seen kindness was punishment enough._

_Raised by merit, I was the best doctor in the region, which opened doors to noble homes. Ten years ago, a day I remember better than this one, I've been called on by a maid to Lady Eleanor Norrington. The girl was frightened. The way she stuttered that her mistress is badly ill raised my suspicion that she appealed to me without her master's permission. I've known the family when Admiral Norrington was still alive, though that connection deteriorated since the Lady's second marriage. Thus, I've packed my bag and went to see her, putting aside those reservations._

_Another doctor might have missed the subtle cause of ailment, but my examination proved it was no natural disease. I've gathered tools with reassurance to the Lady that I will work on the cure as there was no need to alarm her in such weakened state, intending to bring my findings to the magistrate. This impulse faltered outside the bedroom when I was approached by her husband. Lord Cutler Beckett assured me that another doctor already informed him about the horrific reason of her illness. He asked that I allow a constable he hired to proceed with an investigation. It was a private matter, which once turned to the magistrate would become public and cause unnecessary social discontent. In solidarity with a man whose closest relative also suffered, he offered a rare medicine unavailable in England, but obtainable with the help of the East Trading Company. I was astounded that he knew the bitter irony of my circumstance when a doctor couldn't cure his only daughter. It was plain that only complete silence in the matter as well as stepping aside to allow his doctor to find the cure for the Lady will guarantee the exchange._

_I wish I had known true price of silence when I took the slim chance of curing the Lady away. She died two days later. My daughter, in spite of the medicine, died a year and a half later. This is when the news reached me of my colleague's death. A man with guilty conscience is suspicious of everything. Through my connections with the magistrate, I've learned that his death was suspicious, but someone removed all evidence. I also found out that there had never been an investigation regarding Lady Norrington's death. The man who knew something about it died under strange circumstances. Thus frightened, I fled England; as it turned out not in vain. For eight long years that brought me to the bottom of society I've been a hunted man and I know why._

_Lord Cutler Beckett poisoned his wife._

_For bearing this secret, the death's been on my heels. I can no longer outrun it._

_God have mercy on my soul._

_Doctor Evans._


	11. Chapter 11

=) Agnes, thank you for great reviews. Only a beyond modest author would be tired of receiving such positive feedback. I'm vain enough to like them and have enough sense of humour to admit to such fault.

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Lord Beckett reached home plagued by hardly joy-inducing thoughts that creep into the lone traveller's mind unbidden. The road convinced him that James and the ever thieving Sparrow plotted against him together. Beckett was prepared to shake the soul out of the boy to find out what as he threw the front door open without waiting for a servant. A dull and familiar mug of a man ever eager to please didn't greet him. Instead, a scarecrow draped in a shapeless dress with a lampshade worn over its head dragged an overflowing sack across the wide hall towards another of a loathsome disposition that possessed woman's body and a balding man's head. They were dirtily laughing at something. The second man's approving grin vanished as he heard the intruder. He dropped an armful of priceless Indian vases and pulled out a weapon.

Avoiding a well aimed bullet, Beckett made an undignified jump that carried him outside where he chased the departing carriage, screaming for it to wait. "Fort!" he shouted as he plopped onto the seat, figuring out that his guards have been neutralized for the robbers to be strutting around the place so impudently. Frightened driver made a sharp turn that nearly tipped them over and the carriage flew out the gates where it rammed into the night patrol.

"There are two armed robbers inside the mansion." Beckett regained control the fastest once he had someone to command. "Arrest them at once!"

The sergeant threw him an unfriendly look. He'd been startled by two rearing beasts that charged his party out of nowhere, which was followed by another one in a human form that threw around such orders. There wasn't time, however, to show this peacock who gave orders on his patrol route. The sergeant grudgingly followed the call of duty. "Follow me, men!" he shouted as he charged towards the mansion where two scary abominations were up on the stairs dragging between them some sack. "Take them alive!" he called out, undeterred by strange sight.

As his men flooded the stairs, the pirates swung the sack and released it into the crowd, sending everyone tumbling down the steps. Hitching all skirts up high, they expertly jumped over the pile up and fled towards the street. The sergeant fired at the escaping pair.

Loud bang terrified a large cat that was peering down from a tree at the commotion below. Spitting, puffed up furball fell off the branch on top of the carriage driver, making him think that devil in person came for his soul.

"Aiiii!" screamed the man as he threw off his hat with an attached cat, in a wild rush to abandon his seat. Beckett too thought it best to get out of the way as the pirates hopped into the carriage. Terrified horses broke into gallop. Two awakened dogs sprung out of the garden, drawn to give chase to a rolling, rattling, meowing box.

"Faster!" yelled Ragetti. He dislodged a wavering lantern and threw it at the pursuers.

"Meoooowwww!" yowled the cat, deadly attached by the claws to the carriage.

"Oooooouuuuuuu!" echoed the dogs, frightening the horses out of control.

In the distance a bell tolled in the moonlight.

The sergeant spat as the procession rolled out of sight.

* * *

Mercer lurked at the entrance, evaluating each guest with a penetrating to the bones stare that would have robbed them of sleep for a month had they been aware of it. If anyone wanted to make their move, they'd pass through those doors. Mercer judged correctly that only the Duke was powerful enough to contend with Lord Beckett. Thus, the meddler would be forced to appeal for his help. So far, his vigil had not been rewarded. No one was suspicious enough.

Meanwhile, the most suspicious individual was right behind him, content to observe the assassin, hidden beneath a lavish wig. Jack Sparrow attended for the sole purpose of drawing Beckett away from the Duke only to discover that Beckett never showed up. Puzzled, he stumbled towards the front door where he accidentally saw Mercer. The blackguard's presence was far too suspicious, drawing Jack to follow him for the safekeeping of their plan the ruining of which wouldn't be a problem for a thoroughly experienced in the matters of intimidation, constrain and coercion terror of a man.

His hunch proved right. Mercer stirred as a young man he hadn't seen before but who looked familiar entered. The assassin crept forward for a better view. He had seen that tall, awfully slim figure before. Recognition set in and he made several gliding steps towards the boy, plotting something. Circumstances, however, dictated that he must wait.

They weren't the only ones keeping watch. A blond girl separated from a wall and rushed after the young man. Not bad, mate, Jack thought, lifting a powdered eyebrow. She was quite a looker. That aside, Jack wanted her gone as he silently mouthed something to no one in particular, making a shewing motion.

James must have felt the same. He said something to the girl that made her stop. She looked after him in puzzlement and then turned around to return to the entrance hall. Mercer stepped into the shadows. The hall was empty except for the music floating in from the ballroom. As the girl passed him, Mercer stepped up behind her and covered her mouth with his hand. Faster than Jack blinked, the assassin dragged her into the nearest room, hissing in pain from a sharp nails sinking deep into his wrist. She was like a slippery fish, twisting to get away. Mercer tossed her into a wardrobe that had a large key sticking out of a heavy, oaken door that muffled most of the screams and banging, and rushed to intercept James before he reached the Duke.

Jack tapped his chin, debating whether to go after Mercer or to free the girl. Tackling James for the key in the middle of the crowd was unwise, but to approach him subtly with a whisper that his little friend will die unless he handed over the letter was an effective way to obtain the necessary item. The boy would want to see evidence and Mercer would bring him to this wardrobe. With this in mind, Jack hummed as he picked the lock, anticipating the fair lady's kiss for her freedom. The gratitude he received was an ear-ringing slap and a coat thrown over his head as she jumped out of the wardrobe like an angered tigress. Blue dress flashed around the corner and she was gone.

"Bugger," muttered the Captain. Nose twitching, Jack climbed into the wardrobe. Mercer deserved a surprise.

His guess about the assassin's intent proved accurate. However, nothing went according to plan. As James charted a course through the ballroom towards the duke, shadowed by Mercer, his eyes suddenly met those of Lieutenant Harris who stood vigil, solely waiting for no other than Mr Norrington. Lieutenant spotted the mysterious guest too and charged towards him with a blazing determination that set James running for his life. He hadn't escaped one jail to be thrown into another. He breezed past Mercer like a wind with Harris on his heels. Mercer joined the pursuit in the settling dust.

Just as the trio escaped the ballroom, the girl entered it through a side entrance, heading directly for the Duke. "Your Excellency, a private word with you please," she requested, interrupting a conversation. A few men cringed, appalled by such manners. The duke too thought it a forward request. He intended to decline politely, but the girl was looking directly into his eyes as if daring him to recognise her. He looked closer and only a long training that taught him to remain calm prevented him from an immediate question. Yorkshire threw a dismayed glance at the floor where he saw his daughter and then back at the young lady before him. "Please, excuse us," he told the guests, offering his arm to the girl, but really making sure she doesn't run away as he escorted her to a private room.

Yorkshire by far wasn't a dull man. He put together that his daughter fooled everyone yet again, which this time crossed all propriety boundaries. This is why she was so compliant about the ball! Beatrice and her travel companion took advantage of the masks. Stella was in the crowd, pretending to be his daughter. Feverishly, he thought how to remedy the situation. He'd have to remove Stella from the room under some pretext and send Beatrice back. But, first, his daughter deserved a severe reprimand.

"Father! I've been kidnapped and locked in the wardrobe by a man dressed in black!" she fired more astonishing news at him before any reprimand came.

Yorkshire's eyebrows went up to the hairline. Within minutes every soldier within the mansion was alerted.

Meanwhile, the intruders hadn't the foggiest about the stir they've caused. James ran around in circles, trying to lose the pursuer. Withdrawing from the mansion wasn't an option as long as the duke was there. Harris and Mercer weren't having the easiest time keeping up with the quick youth, but in spite of drawing what seemed like his last breath each time, the lieutenant refused to fall behind, though he lost his hat, giving Mercer a perfect opportunity to trip over it. James too was tiring. It just so happened, the room with the wardrobe drew his attention and he rushed inside where he hid behind a statue just as Harris flew in.

"Come out," said the lieutenant breathlessly. He barely refrained from leaning onto his musket as he studied the room and then, settling on the most suspicion place crept forward. "You cannot hide."

James peeked out from his shelter and saw that Harris was sneaking up on the wardrobe as he talked to it. Harris yanked the wardrobe open, anticipating the youth's surprise. Bottomless, dark eyes and a heavily powdered head of a middle-age gentleman peered at him from the coats.

"Gah!" Harris cursed, knocked back as the man sprung forward. Harris grabbed a fistful of hair, although the later nimbly dodged like no middle-aged gentleman could, and was left with a wig in hand. "Hold it right there!" he yelled, tossing the wig aside and chasing a shock of black hair. The lieutenant was doomed to lose another race, except coming around a corner Jack crashed into Mercer who instantly recognised his enemy.

Bony hand like that belonging to death sunk into Jack's throat. "Where's the letter?" Mercer hissed. The answer was not forthcoming as Harris tripped over the fighting pair. The trio rolled across the floor, showering kicks and punches liberally. Mercer was strangling Jack to get the letter. Jack was going to all dirty measures in a struggle to untangle himself from the fight. Harris no longer knew who he was fighting, but bewildered by endless intruders springing out of every crack, he decided to let everyone have it.

James attempted to tiptoe around the fight unnoticed and nearly bumped into no other than Yorkshire who came to investigate the wardrobe where his daughter had been locked. Two guards grabbed James and several more appeared to encircle the fighters. Abrupt pain from a blade slashing his wrist, forced Harris to release the man clad in black. Mercer slipped past the soldiers. Four men separated from the circle to capture him. Jack was envious. He didn't cherish being on the floor with Harris sitting on top of him. The rustling and miffed exclamations sunk into respectful silence as the duke spoke up.

"I would like to hear a sound explanation," he said, but nobody yet pieced together a coherent picture. Everyone looked away as he studied them one by one.

"Please, let me speak, Your Excellency," said James.

Yorkshire hesitated. He preferred to hear the account from Harris who climbed onto his feet and valiantly tried to brush himself into a respectable appearance.

"Father please, listen to him," said Beatrice.

"Yes," said Jack, "listen to her," and smiled innocently at Harris who eyed him like he was the main suspect to be arrested. The captain edged towards the window. An echo rolled in from the distance that sounded like a severely discontent cat. Smiting everything in its path, a carriage broke through the gate. Peacefully chirping crickets under the window scattered. Jack bolted through the window, inelegantly landing in a heap inside the moving disaster. The captain used his crewman to regain the vertical position and raised his arm in triumphant salute.

"Let this be known," he shouted over the barking dogs, "as the night you've nearly caught…"

The cat finally retracted his claws in a desperate attempt to escape the chaos. The motion carried him into Jack's face.

"Who did he say he was?" Harris exclaimed, annoyed that he didn't hear the last words. He couldn't believe two scoundrels escaped right under his nose. Knowing at least one name would have helped him look for them. He pretended to stare out the window busily, not at all in a hurry to face his superior.

"Would you care to provide an explanation, Sir, before you too disappear," Yorkshire addressed their remaining prisoner. At his sign, the soldiers released James, but kept their weapons on him in case he too planned to run.

James removed the mask and bowed. "My name is James Norrington. I come to plead your assistance in a murder investigation."


	12. Chapter 12

**Epilogue**

Beautiful ship danced on the water in a stream of sunlight like she was celebrating new found freedom and dreamt of jumping off the anchor to experience it to the full extent by racing the waves. At least James imagined she did as he watched her, still in disbelief that this magnificent creation now belonged to him. So would the rest of the fortune formerly belonging to Admiral Norrington was soon to be passed to his son – Yorkshire promised. James was grateful to have the support he never imagined to receive, but of all the possessions, he cherished his father's ship the most.

With an effort James dragged his eyes away as Beatrice touched his elbow, subtly drawing his attention towards a prisoner escorted between two soldiers. Lord Beckett in spite of a house arrest for the past week acted like those soldiers were taking him to the captain's cabin rather than the brig. He brushed past James' party like they were irrelevant pests. Yorkshire didn't like that. At his gesture the soldiers forced the prisoner to a halt.

"I do not envy you, Mr Beckett," Yorkshire deliberately dropped the title like he was certain it was all but lost. "A murder case hangs above you that could only lead to tribunal. Admiral Norrington was a hero known in London. I do not envy you mistreating his only son and heir. All of this will be framed by ill recommendations from me personally."

"Heroism and noble blood have been things of value in the past," Beckett stated like he was talking to a man doomed to lose because he was stuck in the past. "You will find there are more powerful factors influencing the society."

"Money you mean," said Yorkshire disdainfully. "I hope it will buy you all the comfort you need with my crew to whom loyalty still means something during a three month voyage to London one of my ships will undertake. You will spend them in the brig only to be taken to trial."

"How unpleasant," said Beckett, referring to their entire conversation, which he intended to end like it was his prerogative. "I hope to see you one day." Two soldiers none too gently motioned him forward at Yorkshire's command. Regardless of the bravado, it was doubtful the former Lord will escape trial without major loses. Even if he escaped imprisonment, it would take him years to recover the position of power.

Contrary to Beckett, James hoped to never see former relations again. He moved away from Edmund and Edward as far away as the island allowed, though his former stepbrothers now feared him and also wished to keep distance. They were waiting for a ship that would take them away from Port Royal back to England where they had to follow several instructions left by their father.

"What do you plan to do now that you're free, Mr Norrington?" the duke asked. He hoped it may something to do with the sea for James was a lot like his father. He sensed unrest in the nearest future where his country would greatly benefit from such men.

"I'll return to England where I can continue my education and reach the lieutenant's rank," James didn't disappoint. "It will also be easier to get information about the trial proceeding from there."

"You already can command your ship," Beatrice pointed out.

"I want to be a real Captain," he explained, "not just in name."

She looked very pretty indeed and James suddenly felt an unpleasant pang that he will not see her once he leaves Port Royal.

"The _Endeavour_ is a great ship," Yorkshire approved. "She will benefit from a fine Captain."

"And I would like to visit you in London to check your progress," said Beatrice. "We will be returning to England in a few months."

"Please visit me whenever it's convenient for you," James responded quickly much to Yorkshire's secret approval who hadn't forgotten the ball's original purpose.

The duke pretended to be admiring the ship as Beatrice threw a suspicious look at him as if she suddenly sensed his thoughts.

"I don't think the Endeavour will keep this name," James continued. "It's too materialistic and I admit I don't want to sail under a name made up by Lord Beckett."

"What will it be then?" asked Beatrice.

James regarded the ship thoughtfully. A smile crept up as he saw Groves, freed from the brig, strutting around the deck he patrolled like he had always known the ship will be returned to her proper owner. Lieutenant's uniform would suit him well, thought James.

"At first, I wanted to give her the old name back in honor of my father," he confessed, "but in doing so I will always be looking back at the past instead of moving forward."

Life shone with too many beckoning opportunities and happiness. James wanted a name that symbolized his wish for the future, given to him strangely enough by a pirate.

"Human deceit or hurricanes, I don't want any fears to stand in her way," he declared, full of hope. "She will be the _Dauntless_."

* * *

Azure sea lapped sandy shore, erasing dim footprints of the two men walking alongside the water. One with the graying sideburns narrowed his eyes, seeking out a ship with the black sails in the distance, while the other bored him with the intensity of a dark gaze.

"Do you have the map?" Jack inquired directly, rather impatiently, since the later had been avoiding the question. Lieutenant Harris turned out more persistent than he had counted on. Jack's dear wish was to part with the island now that James was the captain like he should be and Beckett was in the bring like Jack always wanted.

"Eerrr," Gibbs offered hopefully, searching the horizon even more intently. "I can say that Beckett doesn't have it."

"Then, logic suggests, unless to the contrary, that you still have the map," Jack prompted.

"Well, you see," Gibbs coughed, "when I got to Port Royal like you told me to, I saw his ship and figured he'd be after our map. So, I hid it where no one would ever think to look."

The captain backed away a step, leaning backwards slightly. "Take you time," he assured, "think very carefully, but a lot faster. Where did you leave it?"

"A girl has it," Gibbs confessed.

"A girl?" Jack asked like a girl was a rare phenomenon that belonged in the fairy world.

"A little girl with freckles on her nose," Gibbs clarified.

Jack tapped his lip and then raised his index finger up like this information just helped him identify map's precise location. "You failed to incorporate common sense into this story," he informed his companion.

Gibbs stared at him for nearly a minute, attempting to decrypt what Jack meant and failed. "But, you made sense of it anyway," he asked hopefully.

Jack slapped his friend's back and motioned them forward onto the next great adventure. "Aye!" he agreed. "I am Captain Jack Sparrow after all!"


End file.
